


Regulus

by LadyBraken



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eaters, F/F, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Horcruxes, Inferi, M/M, Raids, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-03-26 00:38:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13846386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBraken/pseuds/LadyBraken
Summary: He was seventeen.Young people are supposed to do a lot of things. First, to study well. To have good grades, and pass their N.E.W.Ts, to have an idea of their future job. They are supposed to be joyful, happy, full of life. The world will be there, so many possibilities! They are supposed to be in love. They are supposed to experiment with their new and short freedom. Some read some write, some fly, some eat, make potions, sleep, play, scream, laugh, cry, socialize, make mistakes, make amends, live…At just seventeen, Regulus Black did none of that.At just seventeen, his face still round from childhood, long wavy locks framing it, his stormy grey eyes fixed on the ground before him, Regulus Black took the Dark Mark.A year later, Regulus Black will die, unknown, alone.Exept, maybe, for his house elf.





	1. I -Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hy! 
> 
> So, first, a small explanation on this work: I think Regulus is one of the most underrated and underused character in the HP series. I would have like soooo much to see how and why he finally decided to betray the Dark Lord!! so... well I wrote it. This story is in four parts, a will describe the fall of Regulus during the war, and, all in all, the war from a young Death Eater point of view, to see Voldemort in the pick of his power, and how he manage to convince people to the point that some of them will choose Azkaban instead of renounce to him...
> 
> I had soo much fun writing this, and i took sooo much time! Be I quite like the result. This story is quite Dark in its themes. I think the four chapters will be posted before next month, but I can't promise as I must work at school and have other fanfics to work on.
> 
> Warning: There will be details descriptions of violence, murders (including on children), torture, mentions of rape (but no details), divers sorts of abuse. It's a war and I'm trying to stay realistic, so there is that. 
> 
> I want to thanks my beta: adlertypewriter, for the implication in my work and the help!
> 
> Fanarts for this sery can be found in the LadyZombiedraws account on Deviantart! also, you can contact me on Tumblr here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ladybraken

 

 

He was seventeen. 

 

Young people are supposed to do a lot of things. First, to study well. To have good grades, and pass their N.E.W.Ts, to have an idea of their future job. They are supposed to be joyful, happy, full of life. The world will be there, so many possibilities! They are supposed to be in love. Their head full of teenage drama, their heart all over some boy or some girl - sometimes both at the same time. They are supposed to experiment with their new and short freedom. To find what they like, to have passions! They are supposed to do what they like, to fall into one carving after another. Some read some write, some fly, some eat, make potions, sleep, play, scream, laugh, cry, socialize, make mistakes, make amends, live…

 

At just seventeen, Regulus Black did none of that. 

 

At just seventeen, his face still round from childhood, long wavy locks framing it, his stormy grey eyes fixed on the ground before him, Regulus Black took the Dark Mark. He was kneeling at the feet of his new master, head down. The posture of utter submission. The white and untainted skin of Regulus’s forearm was presented in front of him like a sacrificial lamb. 

 

Regulus didn’t move. 

 

It was the end of summer, and heavy drops were falling against the windows, invisible against the darkened sky. 

 

All his family was here with him. Well, all his family that wasn’t banned from the ancestral tapestry. All the family that mattered, would have said his mother. His fierce cousin, Bellatrix, and her new husband Rodolphus. Rodolfus’s younger brother was here too, holding his freshly marked arm with a mix of pain and pride. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, his cousins. Aunt Druella. His mother, her eyes shimmering with the Black madness. Her husband - and cousins - shoulder tensed, but eyes downcast. 

 

Regulus couldn’t see what was happening around him. He kept repeating to himself that it was what he wanted. It was good, it had to be done. It was an honor, yes, an honor. Nothing short of continuing the legacy of the Blacks. Ensuring a future for his family - for his kind. The only way, the best way, the  _ good  _ way. It was freedom. 

 

It was war. 

 

He was anxious. 

 

Who was he kidding, he was completely afraid, shaking like a fucking Hufflepuff girl, his heart hammering in his throat as if it wanted to beat its way out of the boy’s skin. 

 

He felt someone approaching him. This was it, the Dark Lord would take his wrist, marking him and it would be the turn of another boy. Its fate would be sealed for all eternity. He would scream - like most of them - because he was still too weak to grit his teeth. 

 

A long, elegant finger touched his chin and tilted his head upward. 

 

Red eyes. It was the first thing that struck Regulus. Of course, he knew that the Dark Lord had red eyes - he had already seen him even if from afar before, but it had never stricken him as it did now. The Dark Lord was leaning over him, against the light of the fireplace. It darkened his white - for it couldn’t honestly be described as pale - but absolutely handsome face. And in the middle of these grey high cheekbones, perfect nose, thin and well-drawn lips, were these two little fires that devoured Regulus, as if boring into his very soul. Maybe they were. The moving golden light of the fireplace was illuminating his dark hair neatly combed in sophisticated waves (so, so different and much more perfect than Regulus own), creating a halo around him. A crown of fire. 

 

The Dark Lord’s hand was warm against the boy’s skin. He could feel the heat of the fingertips printing their marks on him, on his very being. The Dark Lord’s magic was surrounding him, dark, powerful. Absolute. Comforting. Surprisingly tender. It wasn’t human. It was so much more. Those untouchable fingers were brushing his skin. No, his skin had dared touch this hand.  _ His _ hand. 

 

_ An angel _ , Regulus thought. 

 

“Breathe.” The Dark Lord whispered softly, and Regulus noticed that he wasn’t indeed breathing. He parted his lips and took a deep breath. Perfect lips stretched in approbation. Regulus felt so proud to be at the receiving end of this emotion. 

 

“Do you want to serve me and our cause, Young Black?” The Lord spoke after a few seconds of silence. 

 

“Yes, my Lord.” Answered the boy without missing a beat. His voice was smooth and there was no trace of his fear in it. 

 

“Do you swear fidelity to me and our cause?”

 

“Yes, my Lord.”

 

“Then you will never be afraid of anything but me.”

 

A pause. 

 

The boy had always been afraid. Afraid of the muggles and their incomprehensible weapons. Afraid of his mother, her fists and her wand and her screams, afraid of being alone and abandoned, afraid of being weak. _ Afraid to die _ . 

 

Regulus’s stare bored into his Lord’s eyes, and whispered, as if afraid that his voice would break the sanctity of what he was in the presence of:

 

“Yes, my Lord.”

 

Regulus was sure of it now. His mother was right, this was where he was meant to be. He buried the feeling of uneasiness, of his instincts screaming that something was wrong, and lowered his head again, this time in a swift consenting motion. 

 

He felt a pressure where the wooden wand touched his skin and then--

 

A prick of raw magic pierced through his skin like a needle. Then another, and another and every centimeter of his forearm started to burn, to tear, to melt under the pressure. 

 

For a second, Regulus thought that he would scream. But he didn’t. 

 

At seventeen, Regulus Black became a Death Eater. 

 

\---

 

Regulus barely had the time to pass through his door before he found himself with his arms full of an over-excited Bellatrix (and his mouth full of black wild curls). She hugged him tightly.

 

“I’m so proud of you Reggy!” She cried. 

 

“Bella… Air…” he whispered. She cackled at that but let him go. 

 

“Be careful, cousin…” drawled Rodolphus, smirking. “One might think that you are trying to steal my new wife.”

 

“Shut up, you savage! He’s just a baby!” Said Bella, throwing herself on the couch and patting it for Regulus to sit next to her. 

 

Twelve Grimmauld Place was full ever since the marriage between Bellatrix and Rodolphus, well, as full as such a big place could be. It had been an arranged marriage, of course, but they seemed to make a good pair indeed. As the tradition asked, they all came to live in the bride’s family for the firsts month, for Walburga’s greatest delight. 

 

She and Bellatrix always had some sort of strange connection, probably because they had the same kind of insanity. 

 

They only lived there for a few months at a time anyway - they would join the main manor for winter, but a place in London was more convenient for political purposes and Regulus… had new extra activities.

 

Plus, they had their own non-ministry-controlled floo here, and enough wards to put Hogwarts to shame, which boded well with Walburga’s lingering paranoïa. 

 

At least, Narcissa's wedding would not be until next year. Regulus really didn’t want to see the two sisters and their husband in his house. He had decided on principle to keep the war out of his living room.

 

“True, but not for long, my dear.” Rodolphus chuckled “The next raid is in no more than three weeks, and you will probably participate, cousin.”

 

Regulus puffed his chest. To participate in a raid so young was an honor, and he intended to make it worth it. He already saw himself next to his Lord, applying the greatest pureblood ways to these disgusting muggles… Putting them where they belonged. Finally having a place. 

 

“Oh yes, yes, yes, little cousin! We will fight together!” Bellatrix said, clapping her hands and slightly bouncing on the couch. She grinned brightly, albeit a bit madly and patted Regulus on the head. “You’ll do good, little cousin. You’re a Black after all!”

 

“That he is.”

 

Regulus startled at the cold voice behind him. Walburga Black was standing in the doorway, looking at him above her nose. She had been beautiful once upon a time, but years of instability had taken their toll on her. A dark shadow had spread under her eyes, her cheeks were hollow, but she still had this aura of haughtiness that only her niece had ever been able to reproduce. And her first son.

 

Regulus quickly hid the thought of his brother and the pang of jealousy at the back of his head. He was still here, he was the good son. He was better. The only one to uphold the name of Black. 

 

“Good evening, mother.” He greeted politely. 

 

“Good evening,  _ son _ . Your father and I expect you in the parlor in an hour. Take the time to celebrate, in the meantime. Don’t be late; I shall not stand it.” She said.

 

“Yes, mother,” he answered, looking at the floor. 

 

“Behave.”

 

And with these words, she turned her heels ( comfortably trapped in the most expensive shoes) and went away. 

 

“A charming lady.” Muttered Rodolphus with a sympathetic look towards the younger man, who caught it with a mix of relief and anger. 

 

It was true, yes, but  _ nobody _ insulted his mother but him. 

 

“She is, isn’t she?” approved Bellatrix, completely missing the irony. “A real Black, and a fierce woman. I hope I’ll become like her one day.”

 

There was a sick glint in her eyes that Regulus knew only too well. He hoped the Lord would manage to channel her passion; otherwise, it would become dangerous. 

 

Rodolphus paled, and this time it was Regulus’s turn to shoot a sympathetic look. 

 

“Come on, let’s see you in these new robes!” Continued Bella. She grabbed the young man by his shoulder in a strong grip -one might not imagine that she was so strong under her frail body-  and led him to his rooms. “Barty will be there quite soon - just the time for him to escape his ministry’s functions, and I’m sure he will be delighted to see you in these!”

 

“I didn’t know Barty would come this evening.” Wondered Regulus while disregarding his outer robes on his bed. Bella sat next to it on the bed, disregarding any type of proper posture to stretch lasciviously on the covers. 

 

“The Lord summoned him.” She said with reverence. “And he surely prefers passing the evening with us than with the blood-traitors he is forced to call family. He’s a good kid, even if he’s a softy.”

 

Regulus looked at her briefly through the mirror and got out of his common shoes and inner robes, throwing them with the rest of his clothes. He was only in his dark trousers, made out of the finest fabric, and a deep purple shirt. 

 

Traditionally, he wasn’t supposed to wear anything under his robes (It was very strange to trap oneself into so many layers of tight clothing when you could simply cast a heating charm), but considering that he had had to change after the meetings - sometimes quite quickly - it was accepted among the Death Eaters. 

 

Alastor Moody had already arrested three of them that had to run away on their mission for the Lords - change clothes or anything to change into, and their poor transfiguration was easily spotted. 

 

That day, self-preservation won over tradition.

 

“Surely. I don’t know how he still stands to be around his father, knowing what he is doing too.”

 

“And he has the same name!” She laugh. “Poor baby Barty, no way to escape his shame.” 

 

He made an agreeing noise and put his black inner robes on his back. He took some time to be sure there was no wrinkle anywhere passing his hand on the front of them to smooth the fabric. 

 

“The Lord holds him in high esteem.” He noted smoothly tilting his head to the side. 

 

Regulus put on the dark-green, thicker outer-robes and clipped the large belt of fabric on his stomach, ignoring the glare Bellatrix sent him at the notion that she wasn’t His favorite. Really, Regulus didn’t know why she had married at all. 

 

Of course, he knew the Lord wasn’t interested in marrying - he had made it very clear after the demands had accumulated, but he couldn’t imagine Bella giving the Lestranges an heir.

 

He couldn’t imagine Bella weakening herself to and for anyone but the Dark Lord.

 

He prayed the Rabastan would marry and have a large progeniture - otherwise one of the purest lines of the wizard would disappear before the end of the next century. 

 

The idea sent a pang in the young man’s chest. It was intolerable that good wizarding lines could disappear like that. All of that because of these damn muggles and their little friends.

 

Disgusting. 

 

With a wave of his wand, he combed his hair - shoulder-long as it had to be for the firstborn of every house, once they reached maturity. 

How he wanted to cut it. 

 

Suddenly he felt arms around him. Bella put her head on his shoulder, the wild locks of her hair falling around him. Her heavy eyes locked with his in the mirror and she tightened her arms around his waist. 

 

“Don’t worry, Reggy. You will do well. I’m sure you’ll kill a lot of mudbloods, and you’ll become a real Death Eater. It’s beautiful, you’ll see...” She said uncharacteristically softly. “If you don’t, well…”

 

She didn’t finish her sentenced and simply ruffled his hair. Sometimes, it was hard to remember what she truly was. 

 

“Look at yourself, Reggy. You really look good in these.” She pointed out. 

 

And he did. His shoulders looked broader than under his school robes, and the belt circled his slim waist nicely. His already pale skin seemed made of marble in contrast with all that black, and his dark eyes, a shade of grey darker than his mother’s, stood out. He looked even more pure-blooded than he already did - if possible. Gone was the child, insecure, angry and shy. 

 

He took his skull-like mask and held it in front of his face. His features disappeared. 

 

A shiver ran on his back and he hoped Bellatrix didn’t feel it. 

 

An hour later, Regulus was sitting in the parlor. His father was standing uneasily next to the big window (weak,  _ weak _ man, but good, somehow), almost hiding in the overflowing and colorful vase, filled with the most expensive if not beautiful flowers and his mother had yet to show up. 

 

The silence stretched heavily between the two.

 

Orion Black didn’t talk if he didn’t have to. He was a cold, proper man. 

 

Fading.

 

The only time Regulus had really heard his voice was when his… Sirius had escaped the house. Orion had shouted to his servants for a week, ordering for them to find his heir. When his wife had locked herself in her room, he had never tried again to get his first son back home.  After one unsuccessful week, he had stopped and went back to his old self, with only a bit more of shadows under his eyes, and something missing in his child. 

 

It had scared Regulus. 

 

A week was all they needed to find a replacement for their elder son. And from now on, he was the elder; it was his duty. He was the last remaining- almost the last alive.

One of his aunts -Bella’s mother, Druella Rosier, had told Regulus that Orion was a joyful boy before his marriage, albeit a bit shy. 

 

But living with Walburga did these things to people. 

 

Strangely, Regulus didn’t doubt for a moment that Orion loved his wife and children. He was just too weak to show it, to act, to speak. Sometimes, the boy wondered about the day Orion Black would be too weak to live. 

 

Walburga stormed into the room and sat briskly in front of her son. She looked at him with a glint in the eyes. 

 

“Show it to me.” She ordered. 

 

Regulus didn’t ask what she was talking about and compiled. He didn’t want to. It was very intimate somehow, but he knew better than to disobey. He didn’t want to end as a black dot on the tapestry. 

 

It was there. Of course, they both saw it during the ceremony, but it was different to see the result afterwards. More ... definitive. The ink snake slid against his skin, coming out of the skull with his mouth open and silently roaring.

 

He felt… so powerful. Part of something. 

 

Walburga considered the Mark with pride and smiled at her son for the first time in years.

 

“You didn’t disappoint me this time, son.” She said. It was the closest to a congratulation that he would ever get. If this had been a few years back he would have relished in it, now, it only carved a cold pit in his chest. 

 

He smiled at her either way. 

 

Slowly, as if afraid of his running away, his father skirted him and patted him on the shoulder. Regulus looked up at him, and saw what he had sought for so long. And with that, the pressure he had felt building inside him since the day he had been told he had to be marked evaporated. 

 

Because it was genuine. Awkward, positively uncharacteristic…

 

But genuine. 

 

An elf popped in to announced the young mister Crouch. Regulus eagerly took the opportunity to simply get out of here, even if nothing on his face or in his movements ever show it. 

 

Barty was waiting for him, dwarfed by the entrance of the manor. Not that Barty was particularly small, he was more of a too thin too tall kind of young man, with quick, nervous movements that screamed uncontrolled strength.  

 

No, it was that  the interior of Black Manor was one of art. Lined with expensive furniture, Grecian columns, and arches, enchanted chandeliers sparkling like diamonds and almost effectively blinding the guests. The windows of the great hall looked out onto the gardens and the nearby forest that encompassed the area. 

 

Of course, as they had still to be at Grimmauld place for the rest of the season, it was only an illusion, and a lot of extension charms accumulated by years and years of too rich and too pompous Blacks. 

 

“Reggy!” Barty opened his arms to welcome the young Slytherin, a rueful smile on his lips. “My my, you look _ good _ !”

 

Regulus turned on himself to show all the mightiness of his new attire. He motioned his friend to follow him in his room- the only place where mother would not enter - when guests were here anyway. 

 

“I always do, my dear. Not everybody can forgo to shower one day out of two.” He shot back. 

 

Barty stuck out his tongue before passing it on his lips las a reflex. Regulus didn’t know if it was a nervous gesture or a simple tick, but it went with the general nervousness of the young man. He sat at the place Bellatrix had been earlier. She had return to her husband in the living room, probably preparing their own little plans for the next raid. 

 

“Well, you’re officially in the crew, now. I wish I could have been there when He marked you.” 

 

Regulus smiled. “Family only, I’m afraid.”

 

“I know.”

 

Regulus immediately regretted his words. Of course, Barty had to be alone during his marking. “At least you had a one-on-one with the Dark Lord.” He said lightly, sitting next to Barty on the bed. Proper etiquette would want that he sat on a chair, but proper etiquette never applied to Barty and Regulus. Well, mostly Barty truly, but the young Black didn’t spit on a bit of comfort and relaxation -in private, of course. 

 

Barty smiled shyly, a rare smile he kept only for his trusted. “I was a bit scared, but so…”

 

“Exhilarating?” 

 

Barty snorted. “That.”

 

Which meant that Barty probably had a hard time not to be too… clingy to the Dark Lord. 

 

Regulus made a sound of agreement. “I felt so little when I was next to him…”, he whispered. It seemed to him that talking louder about the Lord would be rude somehow. “It was like-- I knew of his power before, of course, but to actually  _ feel _ it…”

 

“He’ll give us the world.” 

 

Regulus turned to look at his friend. He was staring at the wall with certainty and determination, his pointed nose upheld with pride. His lips slightly parted as if in ecstasy. Regulus could almost see the images of future power and glory in his brown eyes. 

 

He could almost see the image of their Lord printed in his retina. 

 

Barty took his hand, his skin was soft and cool against the other boy’s.

 

“He will, my friend. He will.”

 

\-----

Regulus was walking hard through the fog, his feet sinking in the damp soil mixed with decomposed leaves. Droplets of water were falling from his hair into his collar, against the warm skin of his neck, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake.

 

He had no idea who had dared to say that autumn was full of shimmering colors and soft sunsets. An idiot; probably muggle.

 

Shivering, he cast a warming spell and cleaned himself before entering his master's manor. 

 

Regulus knocked at the door. 

 

A servant - probably some unmarked Death Eater, opened the door, and led him to his master. 

 

How strange that the Dark Lord didn’t have house elves for this type of task...

 

“Come in.” He heard from the other side of the wooden door. He opened it and found himself in a quite luxurious room, all in cherry wood and deep velvet. The luxury of the place doesn’t surprise him, of course. But the simplicity did. The furniture wasn’t carved in refined details, but functional, the room wasn’t neat and clean --empty--  as the proper etiquette would ask it to. Enormous books with a leather cover and old parchment are scattered across the wooden desk and on the shelves, among precious looking artifacts, maps, and papers of all sorts. 

 

In the middle of that room, the Dark Lord is sitting in an armchair, legs crossed and a book in his hand. Nervousness washed over Regulus. How the Lord could look so elegant in such a trivial -almost domestic - scenery Regulus would never know. Next to him was Severus, a boy two years older than Regulus, standing proudly in his black robes, hands behind his back.

 

Severus’ eyes seemed to bore into Regulus skull, and the young man suddenly felt very  _ naked _ .

 

Regulus knew him well as the target for his brother’s pranks and bullying and a genius in many aspects of the Dark Arts. A force to reckon with, obviously. 

 

It has been a week since Regulus was marked. His arm still hurt, but not like in the firsts times. Now it was more of a lingering burn as if he had only a bruise on his skin. He wondered if Snape’s mark still burnt. 

 

“Ah, Regulus. Sit.” the Dark Lord said, motioning to the armchair in front of him. 

 

Regulus noticed that it was slightly closer to the floor than the one his Lord was sitting in, so much so that when he sat, he was two head shorter than him. 

 

“Severus, leave us.” Dismissed the Dark Lord. 

 

The young man hurried to comply and slightly banged a globe that was resting on the Lord’s desk in passing, but with a quick wand wave, the object barely moved; it’s shiny side was now facing the Dark Lord, who didn’t look up out of his book. 

 

The Dark Lord closed his book and put it aside. He took a moment to consider his guest. Regulus didn’t fidget under his gaze because Blacks didn’t fidget, but it was a close call. 

 

“My  _ dear  _ Regulus. It is a pleasure to welcome you amongst our ranks. Yes, yes, of course, you were marked a week ago, but I didn’t have the occasion to personally congratulate you. You’re a man now.” He said. The Lord’s voice was soft as silk, barely above a whisper. He didn’t have to scream and shouted to be obeyed. Regulus took a moment to let the shiver down his back disappear. 

 

“Thank you, my Lord, for accepting me among the ranks.” Humbly answered the young heir; bowing his head at exactly forty-five degree, just enough to show respect, not enough to show desperation.

 

“But it’s quite normal, for the heir to the most ancient and Noble house of Black. I received your mother, and she is quite proud of her second son.” 

 

Regulus looked at him with incredulity. “Oh, I know that your older brother was disowned, young Regulus. He chooses to be our enemy, and I approbate your mother’s decision. There is no place in our new world for traitors. However, family ties are easy to break on paper, hard to break in the heart. And I’m afraid that on the battlefield, papers don’t matter so much.”

 

Regulus was a smart boy. Clearly smart enough to know when he was being tested. It was only words, after all. 

 

“My family of heart, my Lord, is the one that holds the values of the Wizarding World, and the ones that are marked such as I am.”

 

The Dark Lord quirked an eyebrow and smirked. 

 

“Ah, yes. Yes, Regulus, I see that you will not disappoint me. I see potential in you, a lot of potential...” 

 

Regulus had the decency to blush under the praise. “I do hope to fulfill your expectations, my Lord.”

 

“I do too, Regulus. I do too.” The Lord paused a second too long for there not to be a hidden threat and continued. “The next meeting will be tomorrow, and I expect you to attend.”

 

Regulus paled a bit. An actual Death Eater meeting… he was excited, of course, and anxious. Nobody could talk about what was happening inside these, not even Severus. It was the great mystery finally unfolded.

 

“I heard you had competence in healing?” 

 

Regulus shot back out of his thoughts and nodded slowly. The Dark Lord turned to take something in one of the desk’s drawer. Regulus kept observing him in the reflexion of the golden globe that was reflected on the shield, unable to tear his eyes away from his Lord. 

 

“It is… interesting. You see, at your age already I had a heavy interest in the arts of the body, the mind, and the soul… But the research wasn’t that extensive at the time.”

 

Regulus considered the Dark Lord words for a moment.

 

“If I am allowed, My Lord, how old are you?” He asked politely, succumbing to his curiosity and feeling his master quite inclined for a small chat. 

 

Anger flashed across the beautiful features, distorting them into something atrocious. Regulus heart missed a beat and his palms started to sweat, but in a second it was gone, and the boy thought for a moment that he had imagined it. 

 

He wouldn’t have seen it without the reflexion. 

 

“Ha, but my dear Regulus, immortality has no age” he answered smoothly, words flowing from his mouth with ease despite his previous - and unexplained- rage,  “However, as you surely know, some dark magic… diminished the efficiency of other - more  _ common _ \- branches of magic. Healing, is one of them. This is why we need healers.” 

 

The Lord had appeared again, a fond expression firmly in place on his face, and Regulus blinked. He held up a parchment and the young man took it diligently. 

 

“You will train under Yaxley for awhile; I want to see what you are able to do in this area. If you succeed, you will be a strong asset to our cause.” He said almost warmly. 

 

He put his hand on Regulus’s shoulders and the young man shivered. “Anything to please you, My Lord.”

 

“Indeed. You may go, Regulus.” He said.

 

When he left, Regulus noted that there wasn’t a trace of dust on the seemingly abandoned books, nor on the shelves. 

 

\----

 

Yaxley was standing behind a long metallic table. He was a big, tall man with a hard face and wise, cold brown eyes. His son had been at Hogwarts with Regulus – albéit some years above, but with his big white beard and long hair streaked with grey, falling in waves on his shoulders, he looked almost a hundred years old to the young man. He looked at Regulus with contempt, but no hostility.

 

Regulus bowed his head -not his body as that was reserved to the Dark Lord. "Good morning, Lord Yaxley. It is an honor to work with you and I hope-"

 

"Yes, yes, cut it there, pretty boy."

 

Regulus was in utter shock. How dare he-

 

Then, he noticed what Yaxley was actually doing.

 

The man's hand moved with dexterity and knowledge around instruments – metallic knives, and other unpleasantness from which Regulus quickly averted his eyes.

 

"Ah. Do you know what these things are, young Lord Black?"

 

Speechless, Regulus shook his head no. He had no idea – and truly he wasn't sure that he wanted to know. For the first time since he had received his mark, he wondered truly  _ what he was doing here _ .

 

"I thought as much. You are here to learn the art of healing-" he raised his hand to stop Regulus who had opened his mouth to protest, " -Yes, yes I know you think you already studied it. You passed a month at St. Mungo's, didn't you? That’s what they usually do."

 

He hummed on contentedly and continued to arrange the instruments who were making little metallic noises when they entered in contact with the table. Regulus gritted his teeth.

 

"However, being a healer under the Dark Lord is quite... different may I say."

 

The man looked him up and down. "You'll learn quickly", he continued, "you don't have any other choices. Healing means the life or death of the patient in your hands; Healing for the Dark Lord adds value to your's and your families as well."

 

His voice was low as if he feared something – or didn't consider Regulus worthy enough to speak louder, the young Death Eater wasn't quite sure.

 

Regulus was lost. Nobody had ever dared to speak to him that way – nobody worthy of interest anyway, or who wasn't a Black. But Yaxley just kept arranging his disgusting tools without a care in the world, insulting the richest and noblest heir of England like he was some misbehaving schoolboy.

 

Preposterous.

 

"How dare y-"

 

"Give me the potion, on the shelf, next to you." Interrupted Yaxley, holding his hand in the air expectantly. His eyes were still fixed on whatever he was doing.

 

Regulus swallowed back his anger and took the vial. It wasn't good to look for trouble on the first day with a new master – if ever. Especially considering that said master would give reports to the Dark Lord himself.

 

Regulus didn't want to disappoint the Dark Lord by acting like a spoiled child, something too many purebloods did and regretted quickly.

 

For the Dark Lord, he would keep his temper in check. He was a Black, after all. He was worth more than that.

 

His orders were to come here and learn, so he would stay, and learn. That's what he told himself while giving Yaxley the vial. Feeling the cold glass on his palm, the Healer looked up finally, with something like appreciation flickering in his eyes. 

 

"Good." He said simply.

 

Regulus felt like he had won something, but he didn't know what or how.

 

\----

 

All the youngest Death Eaters were gathered in the room. The second generation, they were called. They were sitting in the parlor, pretending to only be a group of friends talking politics - as expected for well-raised purebloods. Albeit for the presence of Severus and the content of some books displayed on the table, between tea and biscuits, they would almost look like mere schoolboys.

 

As usual, Lucius was holding court. Regulus, as the last heir of the oldest family, should have been in his place, but he was more of the shy kind and lacked the charisma of his blonde cousin. Or his brother’s. It didn’t stop him from taking part in the celebration. 

 

No, Regulus was talking strategically. He greeted Rosier (the son) warmly. The boy’s father had great financial interests and alliances with the Black industries. None of the boys had yet received their inheritance of course (“-- and may we receive them as late as possible!” they exclaimed, laughing to hide the poison in their words), but to evaluate an ally is something that takes time, and effort. 

 

The next raid was in two days, and the excitement was slowly rising.

 

“I certainly can’t wait to try Severus’s new curse on these muggles!” Exclaimed Barty, licking his lips with -- too much -- excitement.

 

“A new curse? Severus! Why is it that you didn’t teach it to me?” Asked Regulus, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. 

 

“Because everything must be earned, Regulus.” Taunted his friend. 

 

_ And you think you know that better than me, don’t you, Half-blood? Perhaps something you learned with your muggle of a father? _

 

“And where did you earned the right to talk like that to a pure-blood, half-breed?” Snarled Bellatrix, looking down her nose at him. . 

 

It was strange how she could bad mouth everyone though and still pass for the good servant. 

 

“I’d say that the Lord gave it to me the day he allowed me to bear his Mark. Or are you questioning the Lord’s judgment?” 

 

Bella sputtered at his answer and looked at him furiously. Regulus was positively close to laughter, but the corners of his mouth barely curled at the glare Bella sent him. Behind him, Barty was mimicking an explosion with big movements of his arms. 

 

A cup of tea flew but Severus ducked it with ease, and a  _ Reparo _ later, it was like nothing had happened at all.

 

“Mark maybe, but it seems that you consider yourself not to be with us. Shall we reconsider your loyalty if you retain information, I wonder?” Asked Regulus with a mock-innocence.  Severus glared at him, even paler than his gaunt complexion appeared usually. 

 

What did he expect, for Regulus to side with him against his family?

  
No, it wasn’t good to be on the bad side of a Black.

 

Regulus wondered. How was it that a Half-blood had climbed so high up the Death Eater’s ranking-ladder. He was gifted, undoubtedly, --

 

_ But was it enough _ ? The Dark Lord used to be so strict about lineage, a normal revendication for the last heir of Slytherin.

 

Regulus looked at the young Snape. As always, he was working twice as much as everyone around him. Trying to show his worth.

 

He shouldn’t even be able to do that. 

 

Something didn’t add up.

 

“Hey, listen to this!” Said Rabastan, waving  _ The Daily Prophe _ t he had opened earlier. “Our  _ dear  _ minister is talking about us in the newspapers!”

 

Silence fell on the room as the young man started to read, his lips twitching in amusement. Even Snape had raised his head above his enormous book and fixed his bottomless eyes on the piece of paper.

 

“This morning the Minister made a speech during the assembly of the Wizengamot, in presence of the Lords and Lady of the twenty-eight sacred, the ministry officials and the legal court:

 

“These are Dark times, my friends. I am here today to announce my final decision. We are at war against The Dark Lord and his troops -- that’s us!--  that call themselves Death Eaters. These criminals raid villages, killing, torturing and raping anyone in their path. These people are a danger.” He made a dramatic pose and smirked at the few laugh that rose at the notion of them being the danger. Yeah, as if it wasn’t the mudbloods that were threatening them.

 

“These raids are not only atrocious but threatened to break the Status of Secrecy. Tragedies like the ones of Godric’s Hollow, London Subway, and Heligton simply cannot happen again.

 

For almost ten years now we didn’t do enough, and from all of the ministries employees and the Aurors, I apologize for it.”

 

“Well at least they are noticing their own incompetence…” drawled, Lucius. 

 

Regulus and Snape exchanged a look over their comrades heads. They didn’t like where this was going. 

 

“Therefore, for now on and until all of them are captured or dead, or rightfully imprisoned, I give all power to the head of the Auror department and the Head of the Justice department to take the necessary measures. Mr. Barty Crouch Sr. will from now on be addressed in case of arrest. No spell will be unused on the battlefield. We will do everything that is necessary to assure the security of all the wizards and witches of England. 

 

Every person caught wearing, casting or propagating the Dark Mark by any means will be arrested and sentenced to Azkaban. Every person caught with Dark artifacts, practicing a Dark Ritual, or using his magic with nefarious intents against his fellow wizards, the wand carrier or the muggles will be sentenced to Azkaban.

 

I hope that our country will come out unscathed and glorious from this war.”

 

This time, the silence in the room was deafening.

 

\----

 

Regulus was standing on a hill. His black robes were flying in the wind. The air  caressed his back and made his hair float. Nervousness radiated from him. He was tightly squeezing his wand in his right hand. 

 

His first raid. 

 

He couldn’t help but to worry. What if he was a disappointment? What if he failed? What if he wasn’t able to kill?

 

What if it was wrong? whispered a little voice in his head. 

 

But no, it couldn’t be. They didn’t matter, these muggles. They were barely human. Dangerous, greedy things. 

 

He would do his best. 

 

A warm hand landed on his shoulders, and Regulus turned to see Severus staring at the village. His dark eyes were roaming across the streets, calculating, anticipating, like a bird of prey ready to fall on some poor rabbit. His face was blank, but there was a glint in his eyes… Regulus wondered if his eyes would have the same in a few years. 

 

As if following a line, Severus’ eyes passed from the village to Regulus. Regulus swallowed audibly. He knew at that moment that he was only another potential victim for the other man, that he barely had the chance to be safely on his side.

 

Slowly and carefully, the Dark Lord started to explain the movement they would do in the town (for the third time probably). He rose his long, slender hand and moved them as if cutting directly into the streets, in the lives of the unsuspecting people below them. He was a deadly maestro contemplating his symphony to be sung by a dozen of human throats. 

 

The night was dark and cool. The leaves were already falling and colored the ground with decay. The silence rising, waiting, unnatural. No birds singing, no cars in the streets, no dog barkings. Everything was waiting. 

 

A howling broke the night. 

 

Regulus saw a dark form running down the main street. Another howling answered to the first one. And another. And another. Soon, a circle of howling pressed the air around them.

 

Regulus hand clenching on his wand tightened. 

 

The first windows started to illuminate. The Dark Mark was shot in the sky, floodlighting everything in sick green. It seemed like the village was already dead, and when Regulus looked at Snape, it seemed like his comrade too was already dead. 

 

But Regulus felt very much alive. 

 

\----

The water was running on his blood stained hands. He watched with fascination the black, then red, then pink drops falling in the white sink. They ran in circles and arabesques before falling into the drain in the middle. 

 

He started to scrub them. Dirty, they were dirty. He could still see blood, feel it, smell it,  _ taste it _ . He frantically rubbed his hands against each other. He cupped his hands and filled them with water and pressed it on his face. He was trembling because he was weak like mother had said, weak and pathetic. He put his hands under the water again and continued to scrub until his skin was raw and aching and his arms tired, but he didn’t stop. Dirty. There was still a red dot here. Under his nails. On his wrist. 

 

On his Mark.

 

The dark spot grew and moved and dug into his skin like worms on a corpse but it can’t be stopped it is there forever. Make it stop, please, please please, it had to become clean again, please. 

 

Water splashed everywhere, on the floor, on his clothes. His thoughts were in turmoil, he was shaking at each sound echoing against the pipes, and he couldn’t even comprehend why he was like this why anything was like this,  _ what was happening _ . His hair was damp and falling in front of his face, long enough to touch his chin. He had thrown his robes on the floor somewhere but didn’t take the time to get out of the rest of his clothes. 

 

He continued scrubbing, his breathing accelerating. Something was pressing on his chest, and he was suffocating. He was drowning. He panted but never stopped washing his hands, and arms, and face. He opened his mouth to try to breathe but he just couldn’t. It felt like falling, he wasn’t even sure that he had a floor under his feet. . 

 

He gasped when his skin started to bleed and stopped. He considered his hand with horror and backed up against the wall. He let himself slide against it, his heart beating his way out of his chest, burning eyes still fixed on his hands. Before he knew it, he was sobbing uncontrollably, curled against the tiled wall. He put his hand on his face and felt the sticky blood spread onto his eyes and face. 

 

He had to wash again. For hours, he stayed there, alternating between sobs and a bitter laugh. 

 

\----

 

Two days later, the first post-raid meeting took place. Regulus’s Mark burned for the first time in his life. He was at dinner, with Mother and Father. 

 

Regulus was holding his knife above the piece of meat.

 

His hair was neatly tied at the back of his head, and it was surely the reason for his chill. 

 

He couldn’t turn his gaze away from the bleeding meat.

 

Why was the knife shaking in his hand? It was unbecoming! He took a deep breath. He lowered his knife and pressed the soft flesh, then pulled it to the side with more pressure. Drops of cooked blood flowed out of the soft broken beef, torn in half. They sank on the white plate and inundated the porcelain, tainting it with the smell of cooked meat. 

 

Tainting it with Red.

 

Regulus shivered. Then clenched his teeth. It wasn’t right to show- feel- those type of things. 

 

His mark burnt. Taken by surprise, he could barely manage to repress a cry. 

 

Before even wondering what was happening, something slapped his cheek so hard his ears rang. Walburga looked at him coldly, the hand still in the air. 

 

She didn’t talk, but he could still hear her voice.  _ Blacks don’t cry.  _

 

Regulus kept his eyes firmly on the ground, not to see her, not to see his father looking at him with pity. 

 

He stood up and went determinedly for his Death Eater robes. He applied a careful glamour on his cheek, so he could hide it turning purple in a few hours, and on the heavy blackish bags under his eyes, in the lines of sorrow on his face.

 

He dutifully checked his wand, straightened his back, cooled his features. He rose his occlumency shields slowly and with difficulty. It wouldn’t last a direct attack, but casual checking would be ok. 

 

He hoped so. 

 

He left a note for Kreacher to have some food ready when he returned, got out of his ancestral home and apparated away. 

 

He landed in front of an old manor - the Yaxley’s. The meeting place had always to move for more security and safety. Too many death eaters in one place were doomed to be noticed, no matter the wards.

 

As he passed the doors, Regulus couldn’t help but to wonder if such an amount of pain was necessary for their goal. 

 

Regulus arrived in a large room, soberly furnished with a long, dark wooden table and about thirty chairs around him. Although the room, with its size and the carvings of the woodwork around the windows, spoke of luxury and a taste for the dapper, had obviously been cleared.

 

Regulus remembered what cousin Bella had told him: a death eater, in the early days of the organization, had wanted to impress the Dark Lord with his wealth. It had been a few days of luxurious food, sumptuous robes, plated in plain gold encrusted with emerald, diamonds, opals. Even dancers - he had heard - and slaves, exotics magical pets, all seeping vanity.

 

The poor man had finished in his own dungeons, to teach him humility. His last lesson, apparently. The message had been very well retained by the rest of his comrades.

 

War was not embroiled with gold.

 

Regulus stood in the room silently, watching the others talking softly in conversations that had layers above layers of meanings and that almost made them frown in concentration. Regulus rarely talked to his peers, even at school. He preferred to watch - and learn. 

 

The Dark Lord had yet to arrive, and in his absence, Abraxas Malfoy ( A flash appeared in Regulus' mind, a little girl screaming “Please, no, no,  _ no _ !”), Theseus Lestrange (“Spare my children”, I’m begging you!”) and Antonin Dolohov (Blood, so much blood, _ everywhere _ ) were in charge, as the three older and more influential Death Eaters, and Lords. 

 

Regulus narrowed his eyes. As much as Dolohov was far too loyal to be a danger to the Dark Lord, and Abraxas too smart, Lestrange was another matter altogether. Rabastan, who always had a soft spot for his young cousin, had warned him, and now Regulus could see why. 

 

The man was standing near the dark wooden throne at the end of the room. Worse, he was leaning on it like it was some common wall for his comfort. His two sons shot him some warning glances, even if the elder was more preoccupied with keeping an eye on his young wife (actively trying to murder Severus with a… spoon?)

 

Regulus shuddered. He couldn’t erase from his memory the image of Bella, his sweet Bella with whom he had played as a kid, covered in blood and other fluids. It was smearing her robes and her  _ skin _ and going into her mouth and she was  _ laughing _ , laughing like a child at Yule. Her eyes had been a furnace. 

 

They said battlefield changed people. Regulus thought that it mostly brought to light what they really were. Did it make a coward out of him?

 

But what he thought didn’t really matter.

 

“Don’t follow his example, kiddo.” Whispered Yaxley in his ear, making him jump. He turned towards the man that he obviously hadn’t heard arrive, cooling his features to pretend (to whom he didn’t know) that he was completely in control of the situation. 

 

Yaxley was obviously unimpressed but amused by the young man’s pride and settled for keeping his eyes on the Lestranges. 

 

“I won’t, Sir. I value our Lord - and my life - too much.” He whispered back. 

 

“In that order?” The old Lord chuckled with a raised eyebrow, but his eyes stayed cold and fixed. 

 

“Always, Sir. Just like you, may I guess?”

 

The old man’s beginning of a smile fell completely. 

 

“Of course, young Heir Black. Of course.” He said gravely. Regulus wondered what his teacher had seen for his eyes to be haunted like that. He wondered if his own eyes had the same expression. 

 

Of course not. Who was he to compare himself to Yaxley? The old man was at the Dark Lord’s service since the very beginning - and as a healer, to top it all. He surely had seen many things that Regulus couldn’t even imagine. 

 

But like the others, Regulus hid behind a silver tongue and a rightful purpose. 

 

Finally, the Dark Lord entered in all of his mighty glory. He walked across the room as if he was in his own home, knowing each and every stone of the carpet covered floor. Bellatrix followed him with adoring eyes, and somehow, Regulus surprised himself by doing the same. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, and clasped his hands together to steady their shaking. 

 

The Dark Lord stood in front of his throne and observed the room like he took attendance of every person present. He opened his arms wides, his hand pointing towards each line of chairs, motioning them to approach. 

 

“Please, my friends, sit.” He whispered. 

 

Somehow, it was like he had said it directly into Regulus’s hear. Immediately, everyone went towards a chair, in function of one’s ranking, which meant that Regulus was at the Dark Lord’s right, around the middle of the table, between Lucius and Rosier. He sat proudly, face blank, trying to shove his emotions into the void. 

 

“No, no, that will not do.” chastised the Dark lLord. 

 

Every head turned towards the Dark Lord with a mixture of fear and confusion, in which the man seemed to bask happily. 

 

“Regulus, come, come and sit.” The Dark Lord finally said, motioning for Lestrange to give up his place. He didn’t even grace the Lestrange patriarch with a glance.

 

The silence was deafening. Everyone was holding his breath as Regulus rose slowly and went to sit at the older man’s place. He didn’t dare look at the man in the eyes, at first. But he was a Black. He raised his head, confronted the Death Eater with his stormy grey eyes and his gracious - but subtle - rise of an eyebrow before seating as graciously as he could on the chair. 

 

“Very well. Now, today’s meeting is about the reports of the last raid. Malfoy, report.”

 

Said Lord rose from his seat and bowed towards his master, his long blond hair falling gracefully around his face, without actually hiding his eyes, that he kept firmly on the Dark Lord.

 

“The raid went well, my Lord. There was no desertion among the little ones. we captured two Aurors - they are still being interrogated according to your orders. The patrols indicate twenty dead muggles - and a family of mudbloods, but no losses on our side. Two wounded, however, still recovering, but nothing life-threatening. ”

 

“Very well, Abraxas. Distribute a few galleons to the lowest Death Eaters who have shown themselves in action, with our congratulations. We must keep enthusiasm in our lower ranks.”

 

“It will be done, My Lord,” answered Malfoy before bowing again and sitting. 

 

“I must say that I am very satisfied with the young ones. Bellatrix, especially, and of course, Severus, for your… delicious use of Legilimency. All of you shall be rewarded.”

 

A chorus of “thank you My Lord” rang across the room, and Regulus had a hard time not to wince. Severus was a Legilimens. He was probably one of the more dangerous Death Eaters in the room, hidden under his frail stature and impassive crooked face. 

 

“How is your progress in the art of healing, Regulus?”

 

Nobody missed the fact that the Dark Lord had asked the student and not the professor.

 

The young boy bowed his head humbly, to avoid having to look at the Dark Lord in the eyes. “Yaxley thinks I’m quite good at it, but I still need practice. However, I am already able to deal with non life-threatening wounds, My Lord.” He said, putting all of his supposed pride in his words. 

 

“Very good, very good. You are a fast learner indeed.” Regulus tried not to overflow at the praise. The Dark Lord was considering him appreciatively. “Considering the pureness of your blood and the value of your person, you may achieve great things in our new world, Regulus.” He continued smoothly.  “ I do hope to see you as a field healer in the next weeks, under Yaxley’s tutoring. There is nothing much like the battlefield, is there?”

 

“Of course My Lord, it would be an honor.”  Regulus bowed again to hide his face. 

 

He was a skilled liar, but no one could hide from the Dark Lord. 

 

The Battlefield. The battlefield. He would see it again, he would  _ do it _ again. He felt like crying. He had to strengthen himself. They were only muggles - muggleborns at best. They weren’t worth the lives of the peace of mind of good  _ real _ wizards. They weren’t worth his worries. He had to pretend to take a close interest in one of the dark glittering objects presented on the shelves on the walls to avoid his Lord’s eyes. It would not do for him to see his thoughts now. 

 

It was fascinating how the Lord liked to accumulate shiny things. Soothing, in a way, to see a flaw in all of his perfection. Regulus lowered his gaze and it fell on the Lord’s for less than a second. 

 

“Ah, but I can tell you that they come very handy in numerous situations.”

 

Regulus startled. He watched his Lord rase from his seat and caress one of the shining trinkets with the end of his fingertips, softly, slowly and with so much care, like one would touch the skin of a lover. Now Regulus could sense it, the pressure in the front of his mind, a swift caress on his thoughts...

 

And yet, the young man could feel the restraint the Dark Lord was putting on himself. The raw storm that was behind the breeze. The man could _ crush him _ here and now without even thinking about it. 

 

But he didn’t. He only used his powers for his enemies. For  _ their _ enemies. 

 

He didn’t see the Lord smirk - but he felt it in the air.

 

\----

 

Bella returned home late that evening. Nobody really worried - if anything, they would fear for everyone around Bellatrix, not for the young woman. 

 

Rodolphus was smoking a cigar, talking quietly with Orion, probably about the Black estates he had won in his bride’s dowry. Walburga was upstairs, pretending a headache, to rest until dinner. In her absence, the room was deliciously quiet and cool. Regulus allowed himself to relax for the first time in the last few weeks - since his marking, really. Since his first raid. Rabastan looked at him intently but didn’t say a thing. 

 

Regulus mused on how different the two brothers were. Where Rodolphus was responsible, paternal, with some sort of heavy poise that just asked for respect, his young brother was quicker, more excited, all wits and creativity. People would think that Rodolphus was the dangerous one, but it wasn’t true. Of the little trio that they had created with Bellatrix, he was the one in control, the on that made sure that things didn’t go too far - or that they wouldn’t get caught. 

 

If anything, Rabastan’s glare made the young man tense again. 

 

No, they did not worry.

 

Not until she came home. 

 

Rodolphus was the first to react. He ran to catch her before she fell on the ground, and carried her bridal style to the first couch he found. Regulus was on his feet in an instant, kneeling beside his cousin. Bella was covered in blood. 

 

After the first few seconds of shock, Regulus’s training kicked in. He cast a diagnostic spell, and after checking that her spine or other internal organs weren’t hurt, he sighed in relief.

 

“We have to take her into one of the bedrooms for me to take care of her.” He said and in an instant, Rodolphus had levitated her to one of the guest bedrooms. 

 

“Kreacher!”

 

As Bella’s husband lowered her on the soft mattress, the elf popped into existence in front of Regulus. 

 

“Kreacher, I need you to go get my med kit and bring it to me. After that, go to professor Yaxley and tell him that Bellatrix is hurt,” he ordered. The elf nodded his head, his eyes watery at the sight of his mistress hurt and went to carry out his task. 

 

Only a few seconds later, Regulus was at the wounded’ side with all the necessary utensils for his task. 

 

It horrified him to see the fierce Bellatrix in such a shape, but he shook off all the unuseful feelings to best help her.

 

He couldn’t fail now, he  _ couldn’t _ .

 

The skin of her belly was red with a severe burn, and where the clothes had not been destroyed, they stuck to the skin and threatened to infect the wounds. Bella’s arms were lacerated as if a beast had planted its claws into her flesh, and they were bleeding profusely. Her face was covered with bruises. Her left eye was swollen and slowly taking a worrying shade of blue, and her lips were deeply cut. 

 

She was covered in dirt, blackening the edges of her face, her hands, and tainting the wounds.

 

Regulus rolled up his sleeves and made sure to tie back his hair.

 

“Everybody, out.” He said more confidently than he felt, seeing Rodolphus almost bouncing in fear and frustration. The man was about to protest, but Regulus’s glare stopped him and he obeyed reluctantly. 

 

He didn’t wait for the room to be empty to get to work. With an attentive move of the wand, he started cutting her clothes off. He avoided the part that had melted into the flesh; he knew if he took them now it would leave marks and scars for the rest of her life, and probably aggravate her condition.

 

He concentrated. Burns. Burns he had studied, he knew what to do...Bella was risking a severe loss of fluids. That was the first thing -infection came after the burn so the wound needed to stay sterile for at least twenty-four hours. 

 

But he had to know how deep the burns were. Quickly.

 

The burns were blackened, some bleached and had clearly passed the... dermis, yes it was that, which meant that most of the skin that was left couldn’t be saved…

 

First thing first. 

 

He quickly transfigured a vase into a bowl in which he put a yellow powder. A small Agamenti charm and the powder turned into a yellow - and smelly - paste. 

 

Bella’s eyes rolled into her head and a strong smell of ammonia spread in the room. She was going into shock.

 

Regulus' hands were trembling.

 

He quickly banished the mess with a wave of his wand, took of her shoes as his unguent was forming.

 

Merlin, how could she go onto the battlefield with high heels?

 

He applied the unguent on her burns to hydrate and cool the edges of her wounds and started to take care of the clothed parts. As the wounds had been inflicted by magic, a simple  _ Episkey _ wasn’t enough.

 

They were too severe anyway. Taking a fiber between two fingers, he started to lift it slowly while casting Tergeo on each centimeter of flesh newly uncovered. 

 

He pursed his lips together at the sight of the damages, fighting off the urge to puke. 

 

He was so focused on his task that Bella’s moan startled him. He looked up to see her slowly drift into consciousness. He had to give her a pain-relieving potion, but he couldn’t let the piece of fabric fall back on the raw flesh. 

 

The panic he had kept at bay until now started to creep back into his mind. Why wasn’t Yaxley here already? 

 

Why was he alone with this? 

 

While his mind was in turmoil, Kreacher popped back in the room.

 

“Kreacher is sorry Master Black but Master Yaxley cannot come Master Yaxley is healing other wounded from the attack Master Black Sir!” He cried, scratching his face with his long nails in punishment. 

 

“Kreacher!” 

 

The shout stopped the elf in his self-flagellation immediately. 

 

“I need you to go downstairs and find me Narcissa. Now!”

 

The elf widened his eyes and disappeared. 

 

Bella’s moan became cries and Regulus found himself unable to ignore them. Holding his work with his wand, he went to the head of the bed.

 

Bella’s eyes were blank and her breath shaky. He passed his hand through her wild curls, stroking her scalp and checking at the same time for an eventual concussion, whispering soothing nonsense with desperation. She tried to grasp his arms, crushing to the last remains of her consciousness, but she didn’t have enough strength for that and her hand fell pitifully on him. 

 

A knock at the door relieved him from the dread that threatened to drown him. 

 

“Enter!”

 

Narcissa entered. Her eyes widened at the sight of her sister before Regulus motioned her to come closer. Slightly shaking, she obeyed.

 

“Narcissa. Narcissa look at me.”

 

Her eyes shot up from her elder sister. “I need you to give her pain a relieving portion. Can you do that for me?”

 

She pursed her lips in determination a gave him a sharp nod. 

 

“Good.” He went back to his work on Bellatrix’s belly. “Take the potion in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Take every pain reliever and disinfectant you may find and bring them to me.”

 

It took them both several hours to stabilize Bellatrix. It seemed to Regulus that with each wound healed, another curse was found somewhere. His outer robe had been abandoned somewhere in the room, and Narcissa had lost all her pompous composure. 

 

Casting one last diagnostic spell, Regulus let himself fall on a chair. He was exhausted, and the fear and the anger the adrenaline had blocked were slowly starting to rise again. 

 

He buried his face in his hands. 

 

But his task wasn’t over. He had to go and tell the news to the family. To go and ask: How many dead? How many wounded? How much magical blood spilled in vain?

 

_ What had happened? _

 

He looked at the snow, slowly falling outside, leaving wet prints on the glass, blurring the street into fading colorful lights.

 

Winter was here.


	2. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hy! Thanks for the kudos and subscriptions ! :)  
> I love so much to work on this thing! It's really interesting to put depth to such characters, and to describe what effect Voldemort could have on them ^^  
> A big thanks to my beta, adlertyperighter

**Winter**

 

After an hour of watching over his cousin, Regulus knew he had to get down the stairs and tell the others what he knew. He had to announce… how could someone tell these things?

 

His heart was heavy and he put his foot on the first step. He could hear the worried whispers downstairs, along with a few words said louder under the stress and the emotion 

 

But it was his duty. 

 

He let his feet fall on each step of the too short yet never ending staircase. 

 

He walked slowly- exhausted- going along the corridor living room where the family had gathered in some sort of primal instinct of protection. They needed to have the clan gathered close, to be sure that none of them was missing. 

 

His eyes immediately caught Rodolphus, and he understood that the man knew of the horror he had to announce. He could see the light dimmed in his eyes in a second, his brow not even burrowed with worry as he had accepted his fate. 

 

Regulus opened his mouth, but the words tasted like ashes against his tongue. 

 

All the questions Regulus had, all the doubts his conscious had plagued his mind disappeared when he saw Rodolphus fell to the floor. When he had to tell him that his wife had lost their child and that she may never be able to have one again, as her magic had associated the trauma with the pregnancy. 

 

The feeling of power he had had when he was marked turned into dread when he heard that three of the twenty-eight were now heirless. That five of his schoolmates had been murdered in their homes, trying to defend themselves against the Aurors and the Order’s raids. 

 

Anger swelled in his bones when he saw hundreds of inestimable books being burn because they had been classified as Dark. 

 

Anger turned into rage when he learned that Sirius was part of the team that had wounded Bellatrix. 

 

And rage turned into despair when he hears the minister in the radio, felicitation of her forces for the heavy shot against the Dark and the arrests of dozens of low-ranked Death Eaters. 

 

The night was never-ending, and he stayed in an armchair next to the fire, apathetic, listening to all that was happening around him. 

 

It was so cold in the room he was afraid that he would freeze if he moved…

 

He hadn’t washed his hands, and they were still dripping with his cousin’s blood. Everyone was active, trying to get news, to know where a friend, a son, a daughter was. Rodolphus was sitting at his wife’s side, waiting for her to wake up, Rabastan had gone to help, warning the few that hadn’t still yet be touched by the raids.

 

Narcissa and Andromeda were directing the elves to move the furniture, to hide the so precious heritage of the Black family. Lucius, after checking that his future wife was safe and sound and holding her for long, long minutes, Lucius had then run to Severus’s place, and next to Gringotts to secure the war funds and his Lord’s vaults. 

 

But Regulus stayed here, looking into the fire. 

 

He felt more than saw the sun rise, slowly, touching the earth and the floor of the Black’s living room with its warm rays. The dark blue of the sky wept until it was totally faded into a cerulean pastel dotted with touches of purple, soft pink and gold. The suspended time of the darkness broke with the songs of the birds and the cool morning breeze. 

 

As London awoke, Regulus kept glaring at the fire. 

 

\----

 

A cold but soft hand wrapped around his, dragging him out of his waking dream. 

 

“The Dark Lord is coming,” whispered Narcissa. 

 

She knelt beside him to put herself on equal height, and her dress was spreading around her like the blooming petal of a pretty flower. But a dark bruise had formed under her eyes and wrinkles of worry marred her perfect forehead. Her blonde locks fell lifelessly around her face and her cheeks missed the delicate pink they usually wore. 

 

Something warm spread in his chest. Even in the darkest times, he could still count on Narcissa to take care of her family. To have such a precious woman touching his hand gave him hope: maybe, one day, the war would be over and people like Narcissa would prosper. 

 

He knew part of his thoughts were a symptom of the Black Curse talking. Making him desire his own. He wasn’t stupid, he had seen it everywhere. How his mother had married her cousin, how Bella’s first kiss had been Siri… 

 

But he also knew that Narcissa loved her husband and that her attachment was genuine. It was so rare, in these troubled times.

 

He silently nodded, hoping that his eyes conveyed the affection he had for his cousin’s soft gesture. He stood up with as much dignity as he could, propping himself up on the back of the armchair to hide the weakness of his exhausted body. 

 

He wasn’t the victim. He had to stand. 

 

He had to be honorable for his master. 

 

After only a few seconds, the green flames roared to life, announcing the Dark Lord’s arrival. 

 

Voldemort stepped out of the fire like a creature born from it, with a grace that was almost ridiculous considering the mundanity of it all.  His obsidian hair was as perfectly trimmed as ever, and his red, red eyes scanned the room quickly.

 

A rush of anxiety, quickly crushed by a warm adoration surrounded Regulus. Even in these harsh circumstances, his Lord gleamed. If anything, his mourning attitude, perfectly formal for the occasion, gave him some sort of tragic beauty, added to his white skin (like the snow, the dead, the innocence) a dignified countenance that could only be found in death. 

 

Voldemort greeted the Black patrician, who bowed swiftly despite not being a Death Eater; thus showing the complete support of the Black family, and his respect for the Lords. 

 

“Rise up, Orion, rise up. The others will come in the hour. Where are the Lestranges and… I see that Bellatrix is missing too?”

 

Orion opened his mouth but then turned towards his son for help. No matter how much he respected the Dark Lord, it wasn’t his place to report. He was, for all intents and purpose, a civilian. 

 

“My Lord.” Introduced Regulus with a slightly shaky bow - thinking how he should bow lower and not even put his eyes on the Dark Lord-, “Bellatrix was caught in the Auror raid, My Lord. She is heavily wounded, although her life isn’t on the brink anymore. Her husband is watching over her, and Rabastan went to warn the few that hadn’t yet been attacked, he should come quite quickly.” He said diligently. 

 

The Dark Lord nodded, then frowned. “Is Bellatrix condition worrisome, Regulus?”

 

Regulus took his time to answer. But it wasn’t like he could hold any information from his Lord - anything could be important. “She is badly burnt on her torso and arms, that may scar for life despite my efforts to avoid it. Her legs were bruised, and I have not yet been able to check for any muscular injury. She had a concussion and a black eye - she may not recover all of her vision on the right side. She…”

 

He took a breath to steady his heart and allow his voice to calm down. He refused to have a shaky voice in front of his Lord, no matter how panicked, sad and tired he was. He lifted his eyes and met the unwavering gaze of Lord Voldemort. His face was absolutely blank, his features even, and Regulus had absolutely no idea of how angry he might be.  “She lost her child and may not be able to be pregnant again.” he finished. 

 

The Lord’s face didn’t even twitch - if anything he looked bored- but his eyes were a blazing fury. Regulus could almost  _ taste  _ the restrained anger and the extreme control the Lord had put on his own magic. Suddenly, Regulus was afraid. 

 

As if someone had ripped a veil as if someone had woke a monster. Even in his fury, the Dark Lord looked so divine. Such perfection could only come from something above.Regulus’s breath caught in his throat. 

 

“I see.” 

 

Without another word, the Lord sat on the armchair Regulus had occupied a moment before. He joined his delicate hands in front of his face, palms together as if praying to the muggle god. 

 

The armchair had become a throne. 

 

He seemed so peaceful, so fixed and intensely still that if Regulus hadn’t been careful, he would have mistaken him for a statue. His delicate features were immobiles but relaxed, softening the somehow cruel edge of his mouth. Eternal. 

 

They all stayed here, immobile until the wards buzzed, before lowering to let the Death Eaters pass.

 

The all appeared in a dark, perfectly organized circle. 

 

“My Lord,” they said in chorus. 

 

But Regulus, if he murmured the same greeting, couldn’t put his heart into it. There were so many people missing. He could see it even more within the circle: empty places where his friends and colleagues - Merlin, his family- had been, not a day earlier. 

 

“My friends.”

 

The Dark Lord rose from his chair as fluidly as if he was made of water, his black robes slightly floating around him. He was silent, no noise being made even by his own movement, but all the Death Eaters present hold their breath. 

 

“I once called us revolutionaries. I liked to think that our movement came from the wizarding people - tired of being chained, of being lowered again and again under the ministry’s cowardice but…”

 

Voldemort cut himself, as if in thought. As if hurt by what had happened.

 

Was he?

 

Regulus shamefully crushed the doubt in the pit of his mind. It wasn’t his place to doubt his Lord, and certainly not now. 

 

“However, the… vicious attack with suffered tonight made me rethink this statement.”

 

The Dark Lord marked a pause. All the attention was on him, with an unprecedented intensity. Regulus thought that had their Lord asked them to raid the ministry there and now, nobody would have even raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Today, without any provocation on our part, our friends, our families were attacked. By doing so, the ministry, the Light, sent us a message.” 

 

Regulus felt his heart stop, but something could be seen on his face. The Dark Lord looked into the eyes of each and every one of them. His dark, dark gaze fell finally on Regulus like a bloody rain on his skin. His whole body was warm and yet an aftertaste of disgust and awe lingered in the back of his throat. 

 

The air already tasted like ashes. 

 

“This is no revolution, my friends. This is war.”

 

\----

 

“How long until she wakes?”

 

Rodolphus was leaning on the wall, his arms dangling as if he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t make a move to get closer, nor did he take his wife’s hand. He hadn’t paid any attention to her except the first night, when he had heard what had happened to her. 

 

Apparently, the impossibility to conceive an heir had destroyed the fragile trail of care they had for each other. Regulus suspected that the only reason for Rodolphus not to ask for an annulment was his fear of Bella’s revenge. 

 

It made him quite sad. 

 

But, well, that how things were. A pure-blooded woman was to make a child - to give her husband’s name a continuation. Regulus knew that Bellatrix had never wanted children. She thought them weak and a distraction from battle. She was a warrior above everything, but, the same as everyone of her rank, she had obeyed the custom. 

 

At least now she wouldn’t be bothered with that. 

 

“I think she will wake tonight or tomorrow. We had to put her in healing coma in order to--”

 

“I have no desire to know the technicalities, Regulus. Do call me when she wakes.”

 

Rodolphus got out of the room, leaving a gaping healer behind. 

 

But surprise quickly led to indignation, and then to red, raw anger. How dare Rodolphus talk about Bellatrix like that? How dare he talk to  _ him  _ like that? How dares he--

 

“And I thought this fucker would never go…”

 

Regulus’s head snapped. He met Bella’s gaze then a tension he didn’t know was weighing on his shoulders lifted. “He’s not the best husband,” he whispered.

 

“No, he’s not.” She chuckled throatily and coughed. 

 

In a second, he was next to her, helping her as the convulsions of her cough hurt the wounds on her abdomen. 

 

“Fuck off, Reg, I don’t need to be mollycoddled by a bloody child!” she spat half-heartedly. 

 

He smiled. “C’mon, Bella, it’s only me here. You can say that you want your mum, really. I’ll even give you a candy.”

 

“As soon as I’m out of this damn bed, I’m going to show you a bit a discipline, young man!”

 

“You hardly even grasp the concept of discipline yourself, cousin. I should know, your father was here, ranting about how he was going to murder everyone that dared to touch to his sweet baby girl...”

 

They didn’t laugh, but somehow, it was just like when they were kids. When their worst crimes had been to steal a jar of cookies and accuse the house elf. Before they became bitter before they became warriors. Before…

 

“Do you know about…”

 

“The child? Yes, I can’t feel it’s not here anymore.”

 

He nodded, not really knowing how to answer to that. 

 

“Don’t worry yourself, baby Reg. I’m fine. It doesn’t matter.”

 

Regulus was once again reduced to silence. 

 

“ Our Lord…?”

 

Regulus closed his eyes and sighed. “He was here a few days ago. We had a meeting about the attack.” Regulus looked at her and saw how attentive she was.”He declared war against the ministry. No prisoners are to be made.” Regulus lowered his gaze to give her the time to collect herself. Surely, she would be terrified at the idea of an open war. Sad that she had lost her child - and maybe even her husband. Terrified to lose her life - to lose her family. He was. He was all that. 

 

The tic of the ancestral clock sounded in the room. 

 

After a few minutes, he dared look at her. 

 

She was smiling. A big, toothy -sick,  _ sick, _ oh so sick - smile addressed to the ceiling. 

 

He shivered. 

 

\----

 

Yule was near, the next raid nearer. Everyone was preparing for one or the other. Narcissa had disappeared for days into the finest shops of Europe to find herself a proper dress. As the next marrying Black, she had to be _ perfect _ , and Lucius had conveniently disappeared for the time being. A wise man and a fast learner. 

 

Andromeda was more anxious about her date, and truly, Regulus was about to ask her to go with him. She was after all his favourite cousin - even if the two of them had never been quite expressive about it. She was the one that made him cookies when he was a child. Bypassing the house elves to Walburga’s greatest indignation. Plus she was soft, caring and  _ sane _ . 

 

It was so refreshing to have someone sane around. Someone whose hands weren’t red and soul wasn’t torn. 

 

The memory of Bella’s smile flashed into his mind, and he buried it as soon as it appeared. It had been hard for her to even start to walk again. But she never let go. Rodolphus was sent away as soon as he arrived with all the might of Walburga’s wrath, and Bella had continued to train. For her Lord, for the Cause. Not even when her wound reopened, not even when she was in agonizing pain did she stop. It had taken Yaxley‘s intervention to convince her that hurting herself won’t help anyone and wouldn't let her go to war earlier. 

 

The Lord had no use for cripples in battle. 

 

Regulus heard a crash upstairs and ran to its source. Bellatrix was lying on the floor, her wild curls all over her face. Regulus rushed to her side but found himself pushed away with surprising strength. 

 

He fell on his back but was quickly sitting in a more dignified position. 

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

 

“I need to train!”

 

He was surprised by the lack of control in her voice. She really sounded like a child. In a full grown woman like her, it couldn’t mean anything good. There was just enough desperation in her voice to put him on edge. 

 

“You need to rest.” He said sternly.

“No! no...I-” she panted “I’ll train. I’ll be good again. You have to tell our Lord. I’ll be good again. I’ll be useful. You will do that for me, Reg? You’ll tell him?”

 

Regulus stared at her. “Bella… You need to rest. You’re only hurting yourself.” He said awkwardly. He was scared, so scared that she wouldn’t listen. 

 

She glared at him with all her might. It surely would have made him shiver if she hadn’t learned that glare from his own mother. 

 

Finally, Bella sighed and lowered her eyes. She crawled to the next wall and sat against it, her breath coming in pants from the effort- and the pain, no doubt. 

 

Regulus tried to approach to check on her bandages, but she batted his hands away. Understanding that she didn’t want to be touched right now, not in such a weakened state, he backed off. 

 

He was furious. Of course, he didn’t show it, but… Bellatrix was surely one of the most dignified people he knew. To see her reduced to - to  _ that _ ...

 

She was looking at him intently, tilting her head to the side. No. He refused to pity her. He refused to insult her in such a way. Wasn’t it what they wanted? To degrade all the pureblood, until they were only some ramping low insects, begging to have a place in their own world?

 

She opened her arms. “Com’here.” She whispered. 

 

In other circumstances, he would have refused the embrace - too intimate, too close. But, he sat next to her and let her wrap her arms around his shoulders, her fingers playing with his hair. 

 

“Tell me Regulus, do you love our Lord?”

 

“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “We all must trust and love our Lord.”

 

She giggled. Why was she giggling? “Oh baby Reg, I know that. But do you  _ love  _ him?”

 

He didn’t answer. The question in itself, it felt… Sacrilegious. And it wasn’t his place to think such things…

 

“I do...” whispered Bella in his ear, and he was suddenly very aware of the strength of her arms around him, of how he was trapped, of her breath againgst the flesh of his exposed neck. 

 

He closed his eyes, fighting against the lingering anguish that was threatening to overthrow him. 

\----

 

Finally, the big day arrived. Everybody was invited to the Ministry to do an appearance in the afternoon, before going to the Black Manor, their winter residence, for the real thing. 

 

As usual, the Ministry’s party was boring. Nobody could talk, Aurors were sending dark glances towards the supposed Death Eaters, who ignored them superbly, the ministress did a speech on peace and brotherhood in these troubled times (hidden behind two ranks of soldiers because she wasn’t  _ that _ stupid), and everybody left. Regulus didn’t even stay more than ten minutes - just enough to shake the minister’s hand as the Black heir. 

 

There were people here he didn’t want to see. 

 

He traveled to Grimmauld place to change and put something more… Black, waiting for Andromeda to show up.

 

He went to check on Bella. Who was peacefully in a potion induced sleep, and check on her vitals. 

 

But, really, his mind was on how the evening with Andromeda would be refreshing. 

 

She arrived right on time for their meeting, in a beautiful blue dress that fell on her ankles and let her back nude until her waist. She had beaded her hair in some sort of crown and add a few jewels into her well-combed locks. She truly was pretty. 

 

She smiled at him. “Like what you see, cousin?”

 

“I would have to be blind not to,” he answered, taking her hand to place a kiss above her knuckles. “And I’m sure dozens of young suitors will think the same.”

 

Her smile faltered somewhat, and Regulus wondered what was it that she wasn’t saying. “I’m sur dozen of pretty heiress will throw themselves at you, Regulus.” She teased.

 

“If they could refrain, it would be better. My mother is in the assistance, for Merlin’s sake!” 

 

She burst out of laughter and took his arm as they apparated away. 

 

The ballroom was… simply astonishing, even on the Blacks standards.  The front gates shone with magically colored ice and a soft snow fell on the guests, disappearing just before touching their expensive outfits. Scents of peppermint and vanilla lingered in the air, mixed with the musky scents of the pureblood perfumes, some of them designed to change according to the light, or even the mood. The finest wines had been brought up from the Black cellar and were being presented around by waiters in golden and black uniforms, politely bowing, eliciting a light laugh and exclamation of admiration. All of that had only been created for one single night. 

 

Black Manor’s decadence knew no bounds. 

 

Regulus wondered how people couldn’t think that all of that, all that fast was hiding something. How his family was decaying, rotting in its own past glory. Would they care if they knew?

 

Regulus came down the main staircase, Andromeda on his arm, spotting all the interactions of the room at a glance. 

 

Orion, as usual, had taken refuge in a dark corner - just enough to be forgotten during the most social part of the ball.

 

His wife greeted the guests with all the know-how that his education could give her, avoiding the inevitable question on her husband and first son with ease - some pureblood had the art to turn the knife in the wound in the most polite way. 

 

Narcissa and her husband were showing off to a politician - probably Lucius’s current boss. Regulus had to admit that Narcissa was particularly beautiful that evening, with a long golden dress and a white cape around her shoulders that perfectly matched her husband’s outfit. 

 

A bit further away, Barty and Severus were in their own little world as they discussed most passionately about something. Probably an academical nuance that nobody but them really cared about. 

 

In another glance, he noticed every politician - was that the German ambassador? - that could further the Cause was here. They were probably invited by the Lord with that exact idea. The elder Lestrange was discussing with one of them, and if Blacks could frown, Regulus would have. It was never good to let the elder Lestrange manage politics alone. 

 

Or  _ anything _ for that matter. 

 

Regulus arrived in front of his mother and kissed above her knuckles as it was the proper greeting. 

 

“Good evening, my son. Andromeda.” She saluted cooly. “Regulus, would you do me the favour of dragging your father from whatever hole he’s hiding in?”

 

Regulus had stopped to expect warmth from her a long time ago. He simply nodded and let Andromeda’s arm go - Walburga had to greet other guests. 

 

The very moment his father caught his sight, he knew why Regulus was coming to him. It had become some sort of habit, to avoid a scandal during such a social event. Regulus could see him grow paler a he approached. 

 

“I guess I’ll have to go back, then?”

 

Orion’s voice was faint. He really didn’t look good these days - but Regulus couldn’t comment as he was barely managing to cover the dark bruises under his own eyes. 

 

He didn’t have much time to think about his father’s weaknesses either. 

 

“Indeed.”

 

There was no tone in Regulus’s voice. His father looked at him sadly. He looked like he was about to say something but stopped himself when he crossed his wife’s gaze, and walked passed Regulus instead. 

 

Regulus swam from one politician to another with his usual ease. These men preferred to talk rather than to listen - and it suited Regulus very well. He had nothing to say to them. Old men, parasites, too rich for their own good. Nouveau riche, the lot of them, with no honour, no ideal, no blood, nothing to sit on. 

 

Small fishes trying to go in the big pool. 

 

“Of course,’ said one of them between two mouthfuls of caviar, “you understand that my position allowed me such indulgence… There’s nothing wrong for a man to admire the beauties of youth and-”

 

The music stopped. 

 

He was there. 

 

Standing on the top of the stairs like he had always been there- always belonged there. Between the marble columns, the crystals, the gold. He was wearing plain black robes, whose sobriety made him appear even more precious. 

 

All the gold, all the splendor, it was  _ nothing. _

 

_ Nothing. _

 

_ They were nothing.  _

 

Everything was silent. Time had stopped. 

 

All would stay still until he said otherwise. 

 

He stood like a towering silhouette, like a shadow against the white walls. His aura, his magic was crushing, burning, _ solar _ . And all of them, from the servants to the politicians, from the innocent children to the oldest warriors, they bathed their skin in it. 

 

He moved down the stairs. 

 

His robes were floating around him like two giant wings spreading around him. The echo of his footsteps against the floor was music, beating the rhythm of their fear, their awe. 

 

His foot touched the marble floor of the ballroom, and the music started again. 

 

And with it, the political game started. 

 

An hour later, the ritual dances were over, and only the new couples were still in the middle, spinning and jumping to the soft music. 

 

“Regulus.”

 

Regulus turned his head, surprised that anyone managed to sneak up on him in such a way. But of course, it was Barty. 

 

“Enjoying the evening?” asked Barty, licking his lips. 

 

Regulus smirked. “You shouldn’t be here.” He said, the coolness of his tone barely masking his worry. 

 

“Don’t worry, Reg. The Lord himself placed a confidentiality charm at the door. If someone opens their big mouth, they’ll die on their feet before having the time to say my name.”

 

“That’s a lot of precautions and risks for only one ball,” whispered Regulus. 

 

Was he doubting his Lord by saying such a thing? In all technicalities, yes, but-

 

“After what happened to Bella and the others, I’m not sure. I think he want us under his wing as much as he can.” He sighed and gave Regulus a sad look, “ Well, until the next raid. We can’t afford to lose good soldiers before the battle.”

 

They hadn’t had the time to talk since the incident. Regulus had been too occupied with Bella, and he knew Barty had worked with the Lestranges brothers on their revenge. He should have taken the time to see if Barty was alright. After all, it was his father that had attacked them. 

 

Regulus couldn’t quite say he was sorry. 

 

Even if it was true. 

 

“That’s true, my friend.”  He looked at Barty. The young man seemed tired, maybe more than Regulus. Concealing charms were badly masking bluish bruises on his cheeks and wrists. 

 

Tentatively his fingers brushed against Barty’s.

 

_ I’m sorry,  _ they said.

 

The other boy’s fingers answered the same way, barely lacing themselves around Regulus’s, caressing the delicate skin with sweet hesitation.

 

_ It’s ok, _ they answered. 

 

The two young men stood a bit closer to each other, just like when they were in school, nervous before the sorting, or facing a group of Gryffindors. Regulus could feel the heat of Barty’s shoulder against his, reassuring, familiar.

 

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to say:  _ I am here _ . 

 

“I am sorry to interrupt.”

 

They jumped and reflexively moved away from each other. It was not good to show your weakness in a ball filled with allies - that is, competitors. Narcissa looked at them with an air that might have seemed amused if it was not for the small gleam in the back of her eyes. Regulus knew her too well not to know that she had to record all the information in order to reuse it if she needed it.

 

She was, after all, a very intelligent woman.

 

“Regulus, can I talk to you a moment?”

 

The young man nodded, and after a quick glance to his friend followed Narcissa into one of the alcoves. 

 

She looked him in the eyes for a moment, as if assessing something. Regulus waited patiently, unwavering. He was used to that his very usefulness was put in question. 

 

“You arrived with Andromeda today,” she said, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“I did.”

 

He didn’t know where she was going with that, but the whole situation was starting to make him very uncomfortable. He was used to Bella’ physical proximity - Narcissa, on the other hand, had always been untouchable, colder maybe. 

 

She was really, really too close right now. 

 

“I think she did something wrong, Reg. Something very wrong,” she whispered somewhat urgently. 

 

He frowned. If she was coming to him for that, it meant that it was something really ugly. He couldn’t imagine what his softest cousin could do to provoke such a reaction....

 

“I was going to shopping, the other day - a woman thing,” she said, blushing slightly, “ But it doesn’t matter. I had to pass by the Muggle London on my trip back because these idiots at the ministry had block the floo and I had to catch Lucius before heading home.”

 

“Narcissa you know it’s dangerous to-”

 

She rose her hand to interrupt him. “I know. That’s why I couldn’t talk to dad about it. Well, even if it wasn’t the Muggle London, I wouldn’t have talked to dad about this. You know how he is.”

 

Regulus had indeed a very detailed image of Cygnus Black. The man had taught everything to Bellatrix when it came to cruelty and was fiercely protective of his three daughters. Regulus was amazed that two out of three had managed to marry out of the Black family, really. He had heard that Lucius was still under his father-in-law’s probation. The man had successfully threatened a Malfoy.

 

He nodded. Yes, he knew how Cygnus was.  

 

“Well, I saw Andromeda there. She was dressed… _ like them _ .”

 

Regulus pursed his lips. To dress like a muggle wasn’t a crime per say, but an indignity for sure. Why Had Andromeda-

 

“She was with a man. A muggle, Reg.” Narcissa whispered hotly, hesitating between tears and anger,” She was with a muggle, laughing and holding hands and-”

 

Regulus felt his heart fall.

 

A blood-traitor. No, no it was impossible. Andromeda would never have done that. She was the sweetest of the Blacks, but she was a Black. She wouldn’t leave, not her too, she wouldn’t abandon them in the middle of a  _ war _ . She wouldn’t have done that to them, to herself, to debase herself to do such a thing… with- with  _ that _ !

 

Narcissa put her hand on his arm, ending his panicked train of thought. 

 

“I’m sure he manipulated her. You know how muggles are. Please, talk to her before someone notice.” Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. “She’s my baby sister, please, Reg, she doesn’t know what she is doing!”

 

He gave her a tense nod and got out of the alcove before someone noticed that they had both suddenly disappeared from the ball. 

 

The punishment for the blood traitors was the worst. What would happen to her if someone else knew...

\----

 

He had a mission. 

 

He had to attack a traitor - an ex Auror that had decided to help the muggle-lovers. Idiot. 

 

A war, the Lord had said, but it looked more like guerrilla warfare. Not that Regulus was complaining - he had never been the one to throw himself into the battle. He wanted to live and to do so for a long, long time. 

 

Here. 

 

A dark wooden door in the middle of Muggle London -of course. They were so sure of their superiority that they hadn’t even thought about raising decent wards around the house.

 

He pulled out a bottle that Severus had prepared for him, uncorked it carefully. The potion gave off a strong smell of turpentine, and he wanted away at once, his delicate nose aggrieved by the scent.

 

He poured the sticky liquid on the lock, taking all the precautions so that no drop touches his skin. Despite the fact that it was dark, and that his identity was hidden by his mask, his large black hood and the shadow of the building opposite. The members of the Order of the Phoenix were never far from the areas Sensitive- these idiots had nothing else to do, after all, most of them were unemployed. Thank Merlin for the new laws against magical creatures - really, a werewolf in the ministry... Next time they’ll try to put one at Hogwarts!

 

With a slight whistle, the lock melted into large drops of molten metal that cooled as they fell into the snow, forming dark grotesque drops in the white cloak.

 

Click. 

 

The lock broke, letting the door slightly ajar. 

 

Not waiting for any other prompting, Regulus entered. 

 

The house was silent, with that nightly atmosphere that gave the impression that every noise sounded across the land, that every corner of the room held a watchful monster. 

 

The shape of the furniture, highlighted by the blue rays of the moon, could easily pass for human shapes, distorted, crooked, immobile. Regulus turned his eyes elsewhere. 

 

He was the only monster here. 

 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. It was the first time he had to do something like this. Without Bellatrix, the rate of the one-on-one assassinations had dropped substantially. 

 

And the Lord needed his special gift. 

 

Thus, Regulus was doing the good thing. Surely, the Lord knew what he was asking - what he was doing. The man- so much above humanity, could he really be still called a man? He was a genius and was doing everything necessary for The Cause. Regulus ought to do the same. 

 

At the thought of his Lord, Regulus’s chest warmed up and his determination became firm. 

 

He was many things, but he wasn’t a coward. 

 

He walked on tiptoes across the hallway - the sound of his footsteps mercifully muffled on the carpet. He opened the first door he found; a kitchen. He took the second half way, and this time, it was his target. 

 

Oh, Merlin…

 

Two small bumps deformed the blankets, rising and lowering slowly. Regulus wanted to run away, to say that he could not do it, that it was not for him. And then he remembered what Yaxley had told him during his first operation. The longer you wait, the more your hand shakes.

 

His breath was shaking - when did his breath start shaking?

 

He kept his eyes fixed on the small bumps, trying to imagine that it was only that, small bumps.

 

But he could not. For this spell, you had to know that you were going to kill. To fully take into consideration the fact that one was going to kill life, and to whom one was going to take it away, and decide to do it all the same. It was necessary to realize all the consequences.

 

It was not for nothing the Avada Kedavra was an unforgivable.

 

When he raised his wand, his hand didn’t shake. He had been trained for this, he realized. It was like an euthanasia. 

 

No bumps. Children. 

 

_ Oh, Merlin. _

 

Two. Blood traitors.

 

_ So young, so fucking young.  _

 

He was sparing them a worse fate.

 

_ It couldn’t be avoided.  _

 

The words slipped on his tongue, and in a flash of green, one of the forms was pushed to the end of his bed and did not move at all. It would never move again.

 

It was strange. Regulus almost didn’t hear his own spell under the rush of magic in his veins and the rush of blood in his ears. 

 

Everything had returned to silence, but-

 

But the other child started to stir. 

 

“Dad…? Dad are you home?”

 

A tuft of ruffled hair came out from beneath the blankets, followed by the sleepy face of the child, who was rubbing his little fist against his eye to drive off sleep. 

 

Regulus stood frozen. Everything inside him was screaming against it, yet, he didn’t lower his wand. It had to be done; he couldn’t leave with half his task done. He couldn’t let the child discover the corpse of his brother, knowing for the rest of his life that he had been just next to him, powerless. He would want revenge. He would try to destroy the Lord’s plans. 

 

It just couldn’t happen. 

 

There was a glimmer in the child’s eyes, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something pure, so, so pure.

 

“Da-”

 

“ _ Avada Kedavra _ .”

 

When the first syllable of the spell rolls on his tongue, he felt like he had eaten something sour, something metallic, it tasted like blood. 

 

When the second syllable passes his lips, he thinks, finally, he is able to do what they asked him, he is a proper Death Eater, a proper man.

 

When the third syllable bangs against his teeth, he remembers where he saw this gleam in the depths of the child's eyes. It was a long time ago, in his house, alone, or with people he had played with in another life in the courtyard, outside, his face against the sun and his hair messed by the wind.

 

When the fourth syllable resounds in the air, a green, familiar, frightening light begins to radiate into the small room. Regulus, not the Death Eater, just Regulus, he is only Regulus in front of the child. Yes, Regulus wonders where all this will stop. Then he remembers that everything stops this evening. Because this horrible black hole, that void, that nothingness, the eternal silence of the blind cosmos, on which we put the simple word of death, it is what is coming for the child, and by his hand, by  _ his own hand. _

 

When the fifth syllable flows along his body to the end of his wand, he thinks that today, nothing will ever be the same again. Today, by killing this little child, this beautiful little boy. Because he had to be beautiful, they all were, the martyrs, he abandons forever what made him a human. He abandons something more, maybe, as he hears a crack inside himself.

 

When the sixth syllable triggers the spell, makes the stars resonate, invokes what he fears the most in the world. Regulus is alone, all alone, without a mother, a father, a brother, a Lord, and he looks at the green ray pointing to the child that resembles him so much.

 

The green light was reflected in the plastic eyes of the teddy bears, on the glitter on the letters of the child's name glued to the wall, on the glossy paper of the posters, on the window panes.

 

The child was propelled against the wall before falling back on the bed like a marionette whose strings was cut off. In his fall, the blanket he had held against his chest fell, revealing his face. His eyes were fixed, blind, with that atrocious glow that only a violent death can give, his features fixed forever in an expression of grotesque surprise.

 

Numb. 

 

Regulus knew he should have screamed and maybe puked, and then cry. He had done so a few month before, but now… Now he was just numb. Oh, of course, he still felt the muzzled panic, somewhere, constricting his chest, the feeling that something was utterly wrong, that he could collapse at any second. 

 

The feeling that he was weak. 

 

Regulus turned and walked out  of the room. It smelled like death, now. 

 

He walked a bit further in the house. His task wasn’t complete. He wanted to get out, but at this point, to what purpose? He had already committed the crime twice tonight, he could do it one last time. 

 

He hoped. 

 

He slowly opened the door and approached the bed. The woman's breathing was too fast for her to be asleep. He did not know why he had not killed her standing at the doorstep like her children. By the time he asked the question, he was already at the foot of the bed.

 

He sat on the edge of the bed, right beside her. Her black robes were a dark task on the white sheets lit by the silvery ray of the moon. It was a beautiful night; cloudless. He crossed his hands on his legs, his wand out of sight.

 

She was staring at the sky. 

 

Good.

 

At least she would see that terrifying mask in her last moments. He didn’t quite pity her. He was still too numb for that, surely. Everything was calm, and still. It felt so wrong to intrude into this peacefulness, so wrong to bring the brutal violence of his very being. 

 

She was shaking, he could see. But she kept gazing stubbornly on the night sky. Somehow, he knew he had to wait a moment. 

 

“My children…?” she whispered, the words containing a sob.

 

He understood the question, and his silence spoke for him. She let out a shaky breath, almost a whimper. He could see her heart break in front of him, her life falling into shards by his hands. It didn’t bring him any sense of power, or control.

 

No, he only felt… distantly sad. 

 

 “Did they…?”

 

“They didn’t suffer,” he said. 

 

Through the mask, his voice was so impersonal, a faint whisper that could have been confused with the wind. 

 

Maybe it was the reason she was so calm. He didn’t quite look human like that. He was more like a spirit, coming to announce the truth. 

 

“Good.” she said faintly, “that’s good.”

 

He extended his arm, slowly, and passed his gloved hand over her hair. She looks so young like that, under the covers. Like a child herself. She looks at him with desperation and opened her mouth. For a moment, he thought she was about to beg, but no sound came out of it. 

 

A small mercy. 

 

He held his wand against her temple, and a second later, it was over. 

 

\---

 

Regulus was woken by his mother’s screams downstairs.

 

He groaned and rubbed his eyes. He had forgotten to take off his gloves. In fact, he had not changed at all when he returned. He had just dropped on the bed and fell asleep instantly. 

 

Regulus sighed and sat up painfully. He got up to change into more ordinary robes. 

 

Knowing that his looks would be commented on, he looked at himself in the mirror, checking that his hair was in place, his robes smooth and his face blank, and certainly, certainly not  _ thinking _ . 

 

What was that?

 

Slowly, he rose a - _ not trembling _ \- hand to his cheek. 

 

He lowered it, struck by the dampness at the tips of his fingers. Why was he crying? He certainly didn’t feel sad. He wasn’t in distress, so why…

 

… why were there tears on his face?

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of his mother screaming again. He jumped and, after a last look at the mirror, decided to go down. The longer he waited, the harder it would be to endure anything that was waiting for him downstairs.

 

“How can you doubt the mission our son is giving his life for?”

 

Regulus stopped in his tracks. He hid himself behind a wall, completely shocked by his mother’s spiteful voice. Not that she hadn’t always been spiteful, harsh, and full of hate. No, it was the hidden weakness in her voice that made him stop. 

 

“I don’t want to lose my last son, Walburga.”

 

Regulus closed his eyes. So it was about that. About how his father thought him soft and weak, just like himself. How he couldn’t really fight, the frail and delicate, soft spoken Regulus. He was to be a child, for all his life without a doubt 

 

Not the good son. 

 

Yet the last one. 

 

“YOU FUCKIN-” 

 

Walburga stopped her rant as her son entered the room. Regulus barely graced them with a glance and sat in his usual chair. On the table, there was the Daily Prophet. 

 

_ “The Mckinnons slaughtered during the night- No survivors. What are the Aurors Doing?” _

 

Regulus stared at the newspaper. 

 

He wasn’t hungry anymore. 

 

Ignoring his parents, he rushed out to the bathroom. He needed- he had just forgotten to wash his hands. He would just wash his hands. 

 

It could happen to Andromeda. 

 

The hidden knowledge - the thing he had been trying to forget last night came back in full force: he could have had to do this to his own flesh and blood. He had to stop it. He had to talk to her. To do something - maybe, maybe he could save her. 

 

His heart was beating its way out of his ribcage and his vision blurred. 

 

He had to. 

 

\--- 

Yaxley was cutting a corpse open when Regulus entered their lab. 

 

Immediately, Regulus made sure that no hair was out of their place, then removed his outer robes, rolled up his sleeves, and washed his hands at one of the rusty sinks that ran along the wall. The tiling was a bit yellowed by the years. Having had to recycle the room itself (in what Yaxley had called an exercise in humility), Regulus knew that there was probably no cleaner place in all of England.

 

Pushing away his disgust, his hands trembling, Regulus approached the corpse. He was a man in his fifties. Rather well preserved - in every sense of the word. 

 

Yaxley was just finishing the Y-shaped incision that would allow him to examine the organs more closely - a mole, then. No one would abase a wizard, and the wizards who deserved it ended up in such a state that their corpses were … unusable.

 

Regulus stood in front of the examination table. He watched the droplets of blood running on the gaunt, grey skin. He knew he should look away, he felt in his stomach the uneasiness rising and the faintness of his breath. 

 

Red. 

 

The red was painting strange runes on the body, soiling it, even after death. 

 

A wet sound made him move his eyes - he would have preferred to have refrained. He ignored the curious look Yaxley was giving him from under his eyebrows, pretending to be concentrated on his work. Yaxley’s movements were precise, calm, always with purpose. 

 

Almost elegant.

 

Yaxley was cutting the corpse as one could water the plants, without an afterthought, without even looking like he knew that what he was cutting into had been a human only a few hours before. 

 

“Spill it.”

 

Regulus almost jumped at the sudden command. “Don’t look at me like that, young Black. Answer.”

 

Regulus took a deep breath. It was a huge risk he was taking: to trust or not to trust Yaxley. Best not say anything incriminating. 

 

“If let’s say, someone, I know … frequented the wrong person. What should I do to stop it?”

 

“Ah.”

 

Yaxley took an organ- the liver, Regulus’s mind supplied - and put it in a box. Regulus kept his eyes firmly somewhere above the older man’s shoulder, but his imagination was running rampant. 

 

“Young Mister Black, why do you think you were sent to take care of the MacKinnons?”

 

“Because there wasn’t any of the warriors ready,” he answered automatically. 

 

“No, that’s what the Lord said to you. I do not need a parrot. Now, answer the question. And  _ use your mind. _ ”

 

Regulus opened and closed his mouth. What did that have to do with anything? He really, really didn’t want the think about them right now. 

 

What he wanted had no importance. Yaxley wasn’t even supposed to know who had ended the Mackinnons. If he did and was talking about it with Regulus, it meant that something was off. 

 

Then it hit him. Like a blow to the chest - of course- how couldn’t he have realized it? He was stupid, really, he should have make the connection when Narcissa had told him. He had made it, but not as he should have. 

 

The mission had been a warning, an example. A test of his loyalty - that he had almost failed. 

 

His Lord knew, of course, he did. Regulus had been foolish to even think -  _ Oh, Merlin _ .

 

Yaxley caught him as his knees buckled. Two strong hands covered in blood helped him up, soiling his inner robes with long lines of dark red.

 

He knew - he knew Yaxley was trying to avoiding him to break his damn skull on the metallic table. All he could see were the bloody, pale fingers were gripping him, entering in his flesh as if to tear him apart. The dead were back again to make him pay and he screamed and fought for them to  _ let him go _ . 

 

He didn’t want to die, not like that, even if he deserved it! In his head, Andromeda’s face took the place of the woman in the moonlight, starring impassibly at the sky because she knew there was nothing to save her anymore, not even sad for her children because at  _ least they hadn’t suffered _ … He couldn’t breathe anymore and black spots appeared in front of his eyes. 

 

It took him a long time to understand that Yaxley was holding him on the floor to stop him from hurting himself. 

 

Once Regulus’s breathing evened out, Yaxley said softly: “It is the last time you create such a scene in my lab, kid. I am not your mother. Hold yourself together and do what you must, or I’ll have to make a report to the Lord.”

 

Regulus closed his eyes, ashamed of such a display.  Blacks don’t cry. Blacks don’t scream in anguish. Blacks don’t show their fears. 

 

He had no right to feel that way - and even less to show it. 

 

“Yes, Sir.” He whispered. 

 

\---

 

“It is time, my friends!”

The Dark Lord raised his arms in the air among the cheers of the crowd of masked followers. He was standing slightly above them, like a shadow that would have risen on two legs. A beautiful, terrible shadow. His crimson stare loomed over his servants, dominating them without even a touch, by the simple power of a look, of his voice, of the air he breathed.  

 

Regulus let the Lord’s voice wash over him. 

 

The fragility of genius was that it needs an audience, Regulus had read somewhere. And, when he saw the number of masked people standing around him, he thought that his master had nothing to fear from such a weakness. 

 

And then, the words were said. Their mission. 

 

To bring Terror. 

 

Capture as many Order members as possible. Kill the rest of them.  A joint attack on Diagon Alley and Godric’s Hollow. 

 

Barty cheered next to him, along with the rest of them, unrecognizable under their masks. Severus was more quiet, but contentment radiated from him. They had lost so much. The wounded were still in bed, their dead secretly buried in hurry and shame, with the exception of a few of the major families. Beyond suspicion for the well-being of the cause. 

 

Regulus tried to harden his resolve. It had to be done. Someone had to purify their world before it collapsed. The Lord was talking with a deceiving calmness, his quiet hissing only tantalizing his men’s anger. The best of that was that the Lord knew it. Everything done was made of a on purpose, calculated, studied to achieve the best results for their cause. And Regulus admired that. 

 

For the fallen.

 

And then the raid began.

 

The raid was a mess. It should have been more organized, really, but everyone just wanted an outlet for their anger. As soon as the signal shone bright in the sky. As soon as the town was marked by the Dark Lords  symbol. They all rushed on it, like some sort of starving animals. 

 

Regulus almost sneered.

 

Regulus stayed back, at Yaxley’s side. As a healer, before anything else, he had to wait and check on the wounded. 

 

He much preferred this place to the one he had occupied during his first raid. 

 

Later, he would think that it was fate that had made him wait. From the place he was, Regulus was the only one able to see the shiny Patronus descending on the town. 

 

_ Dumbledore.  _

 

Immediately, Regulus rose his wand towards the sky and a red-blood line of sparkling magic cut it in half. 

 

Regulus could hear the curses crash against the walls, the windows. The screams of the battle. The street strobed in red, white, green as the curses were shouted, and dark shadows ran from one cover to another. 

 

Wand in hand, Regulus got closer to the battlefield. 

 

A flash. 

 

Regulus started to curse the order members, recognizable by their Auror’s uniforms - no sense of discretion, really. He knelt near to an anonymous Death Eater, but the man was long dead, his white mask broken and showing the bloody remains of his face. 

 

Regulus knew the Ministry had declared that they would show no mercy, but to see it... it was something else. 

 

Regulus was angry. Too much magical blood was already being spilled.

 

“ _ Experlliarmus _ !”

 

Regulus jumped just in time to avoid the spell. One of the Order’s members- an Auror, pureblood, Longbottom - was standing at the other side of the street. He was holding his head proudly, and looking down at the young Death Eater. Pointing his wand toward him.  Alone. 

 

Regulus’s spells flashed in seconds. The other man was powerful, truly, but nowhere as fast or dangerous as Regulus. He was fighting with Light spells only, of course. 

 

Regulus didn’t return the favour. 

 

A spell flew above his shoulder, and he saw in the corner of his eye Yaxley standing next to him. Longbottom, his eyes widened - clearly not ready to take on two Death Eaters at the same time, but none of his opponents let him the time to process the situation. 

 

A  Bombarda exploded half a house on Longbottom’s right, and Regulus immediately charmed the debris to throw themselves towards the young Auror. Longbottom ran fast enough to avoid most of the damages, but a rock hit him in his wand arm, extorting a shout out of him. 

 

The muggles that had lived in the house, however, probably didn’t survive. 

 

Spells went flying - and Longbottom’s shield started to weakened under the numerous blows. The man was panting, and half hidden behind a fallen wall. 

 

He only tried to strengthen his shield, never to lower its surface… Not the brightest one, obviously. 

 

A roaring light rushed towards him and Regulus threw himself on the ground. 

 

He heard a heavy thud as Yaxley fell on the ground a few feet away from him, his head bent into an awkward angle. 

 

Regulus wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. 

 

He didn’t. 

 

He cast the strongest shield he knew and ran to the still warm corpse of his old master, slipping on the cold mud. With a trembling hand, he put a portkey in the corpse’s palm and with a pop, Yaxley disappeared. 

 

He refused to let them soil the corpse of such an honorable man. 

 

“What is it, little Death Eater? Are you lost without your friend? Not strong enough to attack innocent muggles on your own, are you?” taunted the voice. A voice deep, strong, mocking.

 

A voice he knew far too well. 

 

“ _ Lumos _ ,” Regulus whispered. 

 

The tip of his wand lightened the night, and what was only the sharp edge of a face became a wizard. Became Sirius. 

 

Regulus’s breath caught in his throat when the grey eyes of his elder brother looked at him with nothing but contempt. His mind was screaming: no, no no no no… And when Sirius threw a curse at him, Regulus blocked it only by reflex. His mind was blank with shock and horror. 

 

It couldn’t be, and yet it was. Black hair dampened by the rain, the blood, the mud, a grin on his lips, the shoulder squared. His face so much like Regulus’s own, yet so much more beautiful, carefree. His brother. 

 

A curse flew from his wand. When had he said the words? He didn’t remember. He threw another curse, stronger, but still blocked back Sirius’s. 

 

Sirius. Sirius had killed. Betrayed. Left him, alone. 

 

Curses bounced against each other, clicking and whistling in the air, against the walls, brushing the metallic structures with a low creaking that almost sounded like a voice, and Regulus wasn’t sure who as attacking and who was defending. 

 

Something hit him in the shoulder, sending sparks of pain along his left arm. He gasped before he could stop himself. Sirius was about to shout a curse but stopped, wand raised, eyes narrowed. 

 

For a second, a dreadful, delicious second, Regulus thought that Sirius had recognized him, even under the mask, even under the uniform.

 

Maybe he had. The next spell he took from his brother slashed the skin under his ribs. His training kicked in and blasted the other man to the other side of the street. 

 

He raised his wand. 

 

Sirius’s eyes were closed, his hair all over his face, shoulder length like he always had it, only to annoy mother. 

 

He had to. 

 

He looked like he was taking a nap, like when they were children, back at home... 

 

_ He couldn’t. _

 

Regulus turned on his heels and ran away. A nasty curse flew just above his head. 

 

“Coward!” Sirius screamed at Regulus’s back. “Come back here, you coward!”

 

\----

 

Regulus was sitting in the parlor, his hands clasped together to hide their tremors. He still couldn’t believe it. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around his own dishonor. 

 

Sirius - a blood-traitor  _ ( his brother, treacherous brother so joyful and proud and kind)  _ had killed Yaxley, and Regulus had let him go. He had let him live. 

 

Sirius was probably one of those who had attacked Bellatrix. Who had killed her unborn child - animals, the lot of them! 

 

He had failed. Failed his Lord, failed his family, failed his master, failed his blood and himself. 

 

He took his face in his hands. No one was here to see anyway. The shame felt heavy on his shoulders, and he couldn’t quite place from which action, in particular, it came from. He felt like he was ashamed to be alive. 

 

_ Weak.  _

 

No. He had to be strong. Stronger. He couldn’t afford to lose anyone else. 

 

“Kreacher!”

 

The little elf popped into existence in front of him. He looked worriedly at his master, but didn’t say anything. 

 

“Could you fetch Andromeda for me?”

 

The elf nodded stoically. “Yes, Lord Regulus, Sir. Kreacher will fetch Mistress Andromeda right away.”

 

It took an hour for Andromeda to appear in the parlor - enough for her cousin to walk a hole in the carpet. 

 

She gave him a piercing and somewhat suspicious look before sitting down.

 

Regulus stood next to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He couldn’t bear to look at her. He wasn’t sure that he could keep his mind in the right place if he looked at her. 

 

“Do you know why I asked for you, Andromeda?” he asked tonelessly.

 

“No.” 

 

Regulus could see the reflection of the young woman in the window whose edges were still covered with ice. Andromeda stood upright, proud, and her eyes pierced holes in his back. She was wearing that pretty muggle-cut, yellow dress Druella, her mother, had gotten Andromeda for her birthday. Sure, she was supposed to put herself under more traditional wizard robes, and give them a relaxed style, but Regulus could see she did not even bring her robes.

 

She had probably been to see him earlier in the afternoon.

 

“I think you do, ‘Meda.” He said softly, but his softness was deceiving, and they both knew it. “Narcissa reported to me that she saw you in… distasteful company, the other day in London.”

 

He heard her take a deep breath, almost a gasp; but she didn’t move. “I will have to ask you to stop this… relationship before it goes any further.” 

 

“I don’t see how it is your problem.” She replied defiantly. 

 

Regulus passed his hand on his Mark, as if to appease his Lord in the distance. She paled. 

 

“Narcissa asked me to help you. She knew I wouldn’t kill you on the spot.” He all but whispered. 

 

“I sure hope so.”

 

She would not let it go. She was stubborn, of course, she was a Black. But she would have to see reason,  _ she would have to _ . 

 

“Hope isn’t worth much these days, cousin. Your father would have killed you, I have no doubt about it. ” 

 

Regulus was pretty sure that at this point, anyone but him would have killed her. She had debased herself to sleep with lesser humans, by all logic she was far worse than them. Muggles, at the very least, didn’t know their own limitations.

 

She glared at him, and in her anger, she looked so much more like her elder sister… “I will not leave him, Reg.”

 

“Surely you wouldn’t abandon your family for a crush?” He drawled because surely, she didn’t mean it? She wouldn’t abandon him, abandon her sisters, her parents for some muggle?

 

“I love him!” She said, rising from her seat in anger, “ I will not leave him and there is nothing you can do to change that!”

 

They were inches from each other’s faces, hers reddened by emotion, his still hidden behind the blank expression he always carefully wore. 

 

“You idiot,” he said, “ don’t you think about the danger you are putting yourself, and all of us in for with your foolish actions?”  _ Don’t you think about what is going to happen to us? Don’t you think about me? Don’t you think about what is right? _

 

She assessed him a moment and sighed, deflated. He hoped he had won. She took his hand, stopping the tremor by holding it tightly. He felt ashamed that she had found this weakness, but he couldn’t quite stop it. 

 

“I’m not the one putting you in danger. The man you dare call your Lord is.”

 

The words rang in his ears and before he knew what he was doing, he had violently pushed her back on her seat. 

 

“How dare you?” he hissed, looming over her. 

 

She was terrified, he could see it. He knew the tell-tale signs, now. The paleness of her face, the wildness of her pupils, the sweat on her palms, the quickness of her breathing. She knew he could destroy her on the spot, kill her without consequences, and even receive an award for it. But her gaze was unwavering. 

 

“He is wrong, Reg.” She said firmly, straightening her back showing she refused to back down. They stared at each other for a moment, and finally, Regulus turned his eyes away. “I will go. I hope I will see you again, cousin.”

 

He couldn’t help the pang of betrayal, of sadness in his heart as she rose to leave. He caught her arm before she managed to pass the door. 

 

“Don’t do this, ‘Meda. People died for far less…”

 

“Then I’ll die, with a light heart and my head up.”

 

She would not change her mind, he could tell it. He withdrew his hand, fighting with everything he had to hold back the hurt, to hold back the pain.  “Then,” he said coldly, “ I wish you farewell, Miss.”

 

He saw tears in her eyes as she left, but he couldn’t bring himself to be compassionate. She had chosen her way. 

 

\----

“You pass far too much time with this boy!”

 

It was said like a growl, and Regulus already knew there was no way he could escape the next disaster. He looked up from his book - an advanced treaty of anatomy Yaxley had given him the last time they--

 

And his eyes met his mother’s eyes. 

 

Regulus immediately knew it was a mistake. 

 

She was looming over him, her eyes like a furnace, her magic cracking all around her in anger. Regulus cowered by reflex, hiding behind the perfect pureblood posture, shoulders tensed, back straight and long neck, but her gaze remained pitiless. 

 

She wasn’t quite there in these moments. 

 

She grabbed him with a claw-like hand and Regulus was sure that his shoulder would bruise. He swallowed a whimper - Blacks did not whimper. Blacks did not cry. Blacks did not scream. Blacks did not show other emotions than contempt, politeness, and haughtiness. Then, Blacks bottled up all the anger, the frustration, the hate- and Blacks became mad. But it didn’t matter - what mattered was tradition. 

 

“I WILL NOT HAVE A UNNATURAL FAIRY UNDER MY ROOF!” She screams at his face. “I DON’T WANT HIM HERE EVER AGAIN, TAINTING MY AIR WITH HIS DISEASE!”

 

Regulus didn’t ask who ‘he’ was. Mother had probably heard about Barty and was reacting accordingly. Regulus let himself be manhandled for a while, before being pushed against the wall. He had to let it happen. She was his mother. He had to obey her. To show respect to her. To be a good son. 

 

But when the first blow came and Regulus saw his father in the doorway, immobile, pale and almost unseeing. He couldn’t help but wonder why. 

 

Why was this happening to him?

 

Why was he letting it happen? Hadn't he done everything? Anything for them?

 

_ Why did he obey? _

 

Quickly, he hid that thought as far away as he could. 

 

\----

  
  


He was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was cold around him but he didn’t cast a heating charm. Yule wasn’t far away - he would have to make an apparition. But the next rais was closer, and he would have to participate too. His chest hurt. 

 

His room looked like everything one might imagine. Green canopy, expensive sheets, an overused desk of dark wood. Spacious. The wall was covered; with tracts in favor of the Cause, pictures of his with the Slytherin Quidditch team, with his friends, with the three Black sisters. Regulus’s dear cousins, he enveloped between Narcissa and Andromeda’s arms, Bellatrix just above them, her head on his, looking at the camera with a raised eyebrow, as if daring anyone to approach and touch to her family. A picture of him, Lucius, Barty, and Severus in a classroom. Taken during his fourth year - they had won the house cup. 

 

On the desk, under the window, piles of books on the Dark Arts, Potions, Healing, Arithmancy. A few blackened parchments with his writing, sometimes Severus’s, sometimes Yaxley’s, and a quill. Bluish rays of light fell on the wooden floor. A broom was against the wall next to the door. It was a gift from his father. Behind the bed, a wardrobe. Behind the wardrobe, in a small hole in the wall, a picture of him and Sirius carefully hidden even from his view. Under his bed, a bottle of liquor, for the bad days. 

 

His cheek was slowly darkening from the blow he had taken earlier. He let his hand drop under the mattress and grab the bottle. Today was a bad day. 

 

When he was a child, Sirius would have taken the blow for him. Protected him. He would have look in their mother’s eyes definitely, allowing Regulus the time to run to his room, and if he was lucky, into the arms of one of his cousins. But today, Sirius had been seen in Hogsmeade with Potter, and people had thought they were brothers. 

 

Regulus knew he didn’t have his brother’s raw genius, nor Bella’s bloodlust, not even Lucius’s silver tongue or Severus’s delicateness. He was weak. He was crushed. Now, everything was on his shoulders, and it was suffocating. He had to be perfect. He wasn’t. To stand up to the rest of the world. He didn’t. Then be a Death Eater. He-

 

The screams still echoed in his mind. 

 

Since when had he slept?

 

He was alone. 

 

He was all alone and there was no way out. Nothing that could be done. He was _ trapped _ . 

 

Only his Lord could help him. 

 

A pop sound in the air signaled that Kreacher had appeared next to the bed. Regulus didn’t move to acknowledge the presence of the small creature. Silently, Kreacher put a vial on the bed table. Regulus rose a questioning eyebrow. 

 

“A potion, Master Regulus, and a glass of water. For the bruise.” Said the elf. Kreacher wasn’t as squicky as most of the other elves, and he always talked slowly. Maybe because of his old age. 

 

A warm feeling spread in Regulus chest.

 

“Thank you.”

 

He didn’t turn to see the elf looking at him with astonishment, but he did hear a gasp. He closed his eyes and smiled bitterly. 

 

His Lord and his house elf. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, review!


	3. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hy! I finally finished this new chapter! Only one left ^^
> 
> I wanted to thanks my fabulous beta, adlertypewriter, for the editing of this (very long) chapter!
> 
> You can follow me on Tumblr at LadyBraken, and on Deviantart at LadyZombiedraws. 
> 
> Warning: dub-con, graphic description of death, suicide, abuse

\----

**Spring**

\----

 

Regulus woke up suffocating. Before even opening his eyes, his hand reached for his throat. There was nothing. Nothing to strangle him in his sleep, nothing to explain his pounding heart and sweaty skin; he hadn’t even had a nightmare. He had taken some Dreamless Sleep, just like yesterday. 

 

And the day before. 

 

But there was something. No, not in his throat. Maybe somewhere in his chest, around his lungs, behind his ribs. He couldn’t place it, and that made it so much worse. He pressed his hand on his chest, trying to find a wound, a curse, searching in his memory for a potion, a poison, a disease, something that would provoke it.

 

There was something, something in him that was  _ itching _ .   

 

Regulus crawled out of his bed, unsteady, and looked at himself in the mirror. His hands trembling, he took out his shirt. He frantically started to examine himself. He passed his hand everywhere, inspecting his skin, trying to see something that could cause the itching underneath. He rose his arms, turned around, checked each and every scar, but there was nothing, he could see nothing. He stretched his skin on his muscles and bones, his frantic fingertips probably leaving bruises in their path, his nails scratching the tender skin - never touched even by the sun before he was sent into battle. 

 

Nothing. 

 

He stopped and looked at himself- himself truly- in the mirror. 

 

His hair was uncharastically ruffled, his eyes surrounded by dark circles, his skin a bit too gaunt because of the hyper exposure  to the Dark Arts ( he refused to blame the lack of sleep or food- he wasn’t  _ that  _ weak). He was panting, his shirt half off, lines still on his left arm, and patches of raw red everywhere his fingers had mercilessly scratched. His pupils were blown wide, and he could already see wrinkles of worry at the corner of his mouth. 

 

And for a long, very long time, he didn’t recognise himself. 

 

Without thinking, he opened his window. The sky was clear outside, a pretty shade of pale blue. The wind was cool, but already held the lingering trace of spring’s fragrance, something alike damp earth and clean air. His eyes followed one of the birds. It was a little thing, mostly black with a few colorful feathers around the throat. He couldn’t identify the species, of course, but he knew it was quite rare in the city. 

 

It flew in sharp little waves of its wings to the roof that faced Regulus’s window, its little silhouette creating a dark spot and the ocher tiles.  

 

Absentmindedly, Regulus wondered if the little bird could feel the same pain he did. If he could feel the itch, of something inside him, felt like it was really in its place. The little bird was cleaning its feathers, rising one of its wings to ease the process. The movement wasn’t really graceful, but it was made in a swift, casual way, giving the little bird a depth, a past created by the obvious habit. 

 

Did he felt it, did it have the itch, this little bird?

 

Then disregarded the thought. Of course not, the little bird couldn’t feel what Regulus felt. After all, it wasn’t human, it didn’t have a-

 

Suddenly it was like the weight of the world had fallen on his shoulders. Pure horror crept into his bones, and unwanted realisation slithered into his mind. 

 

Oh, how he wished he hadn’t thought of that, how he wished he hadn’t known! The realisation is somewhat even more terrible than the fact itself. 

 

Of course.  _ Of course... _

 

\----

“I saw Sirius.”

 

Orion’s head shot up immediately. Something like longing passed on his face before it was composed again in the shy blank expression he always sported. 

 

So, Regulus had been right. 

 

It was strange to know that despite being the good son, despite having done everything for his family, Sirius would always be favoured. Already when they were fifteen- when talks about taking the mark had taken place. It was Sirius that the Lord had wanted first, Sirius that had been recommended. 

 

No matter if he had hung out with some blood-traitor and mudbloods. Even a  _ half-breed,  _ he had heard. 

 

But Orion had been… shaky these last days. Something wrong was up in his poor head, and Regulus found himself trying to help despite his best judgement. 

 

So, Regulus had waited for his mother to get out - to leave him and his father alone, and done the unthinkable. Talked about the outcast. 

 

His father was staring at him in disbelief, he knew. Disbelief of what, that, he had no idea - or maybe too many. 

 

“During a … mission.” He couldn’t say ‘raid’, he couldn’t incriminate himself if a legilimens were to attack his father. But the older man understood. “He didn’t recognise me, attacked me.”

 

Orion made a little plaintive noise, but his face remained unchanging. “I defended myself. He got away-”,  _ of course _ , “ and returned to the Order, for as far as I know.”

 

“He was…” Regulus frowned at the weakness of his father’s voice, “He was well?”

 

He nodded. His father seemed content with that and sighed. After a moment, he got up and put his hand on his son’s. A silent thank you, then, and the man was out of the room. 

 

Regulus stretched his hand. The sensation had been strangely warm. Disconcerting. 

 

It didn’t escape him that his father hadn’t asked if he had been hurt. 

 

He looked at the now dry flowers pathetically hanging in the luxurious vases, their feet drown in the brownish water.

 

Kreacher was brooding again.

\----

 

They were all sitting in the living room: the Lestrange brothers, the Black sisters, and of course, Regulus. 

 

Kreacher appeared. Without looking at anyone, walking like a shadow, it set the tea on the table before popping away. Narcissa served her guests. It used to be a house-elf task, but three purebloods had died by poison the last week alone. For anyone else, it would have be everyone against everyone… But the Blacks always banded together to freeze everyone else out. 

 

To show distrust towards each other would be an enormous politic faux-pas. 

 

To show trust, however, would be plainly stupid. 

 

“I heard about the last raid, Reggy. I’m sorry for the loss of your mentor,” said Narcissa delicately. “I hope the murderer will be justly punished.”

 

“Me too, my dear. Yaxley was an excellent healer and a fierce soldier. My mind is put at ease by the fact that he died like a soldier - for the cause- at the very least.” continued Rabastan. 

 

Regulus repressed the urge to scoff. Yaxley hadn’t died like a soldier, he had died stupidly. He had died because he hadn’t been quick enough, because he was a healer and not a soldier, because he should have had nothing to do out of a hospital. 

 

And in the end, his death didn’t change anything. 

 

Regulus nodded his head with polite sadness. “Indeed, Rabastan, indeed. He fought well, and I hope for all of us, if not to die at old age, to die is such a glorious way. He will be remembered, when the new world will rise.”

 

He would not. Yaxley hadn’t even had a proper burying - the circumstances of his death too suspicious for anyone to attend. Buried by Aurors and muggles, what a glorious way to go…

 

“And now, you will be promoted our main Healer! There is at least something good coming out of this after all.” declared Bellatrix, seemingly completely unaffected by her colleague's death.  

 

Regulus frowned. 

 

“The Lord didn’t give me any orders that went in this vein, Bellatrix.” He said. The greater part of the truth is always hidden - even if Bella’s smirk made it very clear that she was not fooled. 

 

“Trust me, little Reggy, he will soon.” She said. 

 

Regulus nodded. He knew he wouldn’t get anything out of his cousin. She was sitting leisurely on the sofa - quite far away, he noticed, from her husband. Bellatrix had become quite jealous of her relationship with the Dark Lord these days and liked to make people think that she was quite  _ close _ to him. For as far as Regulus knew, however, the Lord didn’t favour her above most of his inner circle. She was a fierce and deadly woman, of course, but never had Regulus seen so much as a softness in the Lord’s gaze on her. 

 

The idea that she was deluding herself was somehow worse than any other possibility. She hadn’t even been able to return to the field since winter, and the lack of action was making itself known. Her skin was whiter, sicker. Her grin more toothfull, and her moves more jerky. 

 

Regulus sipped his tea. They were clearly dancing around the issue: Andromeda’s betrayal. In other circumstances, talking about her would simply have been taboo. His mother had, after all, already erased her from the familial tapestry, creating a twin mark with the one she had made for Regulus’s brother years ago.

 

It felt like a life ago.

 

Absentmindedly, Regulus placed his hand in the center of his chest, to make the ich go. 

 

The fact remained: Andy’s betrayal was more than a simple personal choice. By doing so, she had gone to the enemy with pieces of information they simply couldn’t allow to spread. It could be their death, it could be even worse. 

 

She could have fucked with a bloody goat for all Regulus cared, but by doing what she did, by saying what she said, she had threatened the Lord. Andromeda had threatened the family. Not only did she disgraced herself, but she took everyone with her. 

 

He didn’t even dare to think about the consequences. 

 

Regulus could only marvel at her selfishness. Alike Sirius indeed. 

 

“So.”

 

Rabastan’s voice rang in the pensive silence that had fallen on the small group. He had moved from the wall near the window to just behind the sofa - close enough for the tip of his fingers to rest on the top of Bella’s wild locks. 

 

_ Ah. _

 

“What do we do about Andromeda?” he continued. 

 

It was strange to hear that name pronounced with so much spite, if not surprising. As family by marriage, the Lestranges had all to lose and nothing to gain from a living and traitorous Andromeda. The situation of the two brothers was already wobbly at best because of their father’s behaviour. 

 

“For now, nothing,” Regulus said softly. 

 

All eyes turned to him. He didn’t like it. “We wait for orders. We watch her, and in time, we will act in consideration of the offense.”

 

_ We wait, we stalk, and when we can, we kill them all. _

 

There was no other solution, really. As much as he wished to be able to settle this in the family - to catch his cousin and use discretion as to what to do with and to her, it couldn’t be done. All action that didn’t pass by the Lord was an act of disrespect at best and treason at worse. None of them had the big picture of what was happening in the magical world. 

 

They couldn’t act without having all the information. 

 

They couldn’t act without the Lord. 

 

An owl passed out the window and put the Daily Prophet on the table. Some feathers fell on the paper when the bird flew away without waiting for a reward. The Blacks paid for the paper year-round. They had so many market shares in the paper anyway that giving money to them was tantamount to passing gold from one purse to another.

 

Lucius grabs the newspaper and unfolds it. His face suddenly took on an even more statuesque quality than usual. 

 

Regulus’s back tensed. 

 

“The Aurors Maxwell Georges and Perwes Alexander were found dead yesterday morning in the ministry’s Atrium. The corpses were hung from the roof with a magically-expended rope in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren. The investigation is underway. The head of the Auror Office, Alastor Moody, declared that the crimes were related to the infamous terrorist group known as Death Eaters. Their mark was indeed found on the crime scene-”

 

Regulus stopped listening. He noticed that Bella had too, a lazy grin spreading over her face. They already knew the news. The two Aurors murdered - mudbloods and distant members of the Order of The Phoenix. 

 

They had no chance. 

 

No, what troubled Regulus was the cover-up of the information. The murder of different purebloods the lasts week - sometimes during outright battles, sometimes caught in dark alleys by active members of the Order, hadn’t been reported  _ at all. _

 

It could mean either of two things. 

 

It could be that the Black’s influence on the newspaper wasn’t as good as it used to be - and the cover-up was a product of the other side’s influence - being the Order or the ministry’s; or, it was  _ planned.  _

 

If the public only saw the death of their enemies, they may think them invisible. The Death Eater would produce an aura of a faceless mass, against a few individuals who were dying one after the other. 

 

“Such a public display… does the Lord want to make a statement?” wondered Lucius.

 

Regulus didn’t react. Of course, the Lord would want to make a statement after Andromeda’s unpunished defection, after the news of the growing numbers of the members of the Order.  _ Watch me,  _ it said,  _ for this is my design.  _

 

_ Watch what I can do to your symbols. Imagine what I will do to your loved ones.  _

 

_ Bend the knee.  _

 

It was as clear as the sun, and Dumbledore would surely not miss this. Not when the old man had so many loved ones to protect. Maybe, it was what made him strong. 

 

“The next meeting should not be long. Considering the situation… We might ask a favour from the Lord. For the next raid, that is to say,” proposed Rodolphus. 

 

Of course, the Elder Lestrange would want a better place in the Lord’s rank. He deserved it too, ruthless as he was. The Death Eaters were dying in numbers, and it was the best time to climb, what with all the  _ missions _ that needed to be done. 

 

One would never suspect the sheer number of mudbloods that stayed in Britain. 

 

However, too much power to the Lestrange family would be detrimental, even liked to the Blacks as they were - Bellatrix wasn’t closer to producing an heir than Regulus was to becoming queen of England. The Lestranges possessed one of the largest fortunes in Britain - but more importantly, five seats in the wizengamot. The Patriarch being as he was would probably step on the Blacks to try to get the title of Minister of Magic for himself. 

 

It wouldn’t really be a problem for Regulus  _ if _ -

 

If the Lestranges political power didn’t threaten the Black’s monopoly on all Magical goods. Disregarding the Lestrange patriarch was ready to use everything to gain power for himself that he forgot that his true power came from the Lord, if the man’s ideas weren’t that far from the Cause. 

 

Providing he hadn’t been caught fucking muggles and protecting the bastards he had thus produced-

 

Regulus caught Bellatrix’s eyes. She had obviously followed the same path of thinking. 

 

Well, it was a luck that what the Lestrange brothers lacked in cunning they had in profusion in cruelty.

 

Bella nodded.  

 

“You won’t succeed.” 

 

“And why is that, Reggy?”

 

“Because your father fell from favour not two months ago.” He simply stated.

 

Regulus wondered for a moment of it would be enough, but the glint in Rabastan’s eyes as he caressed Bella’s lock discreetly was telling tails. 

 

She really had done a good job to put the  _ two _ brothers in her pocket, by word or by deed. 

 

Regulus sipped his tea. It had cooled, but he didn’t bother to reheat it. The bitter and familiar taste calmed his mind ever so slightly. 

 

As always, he would do what he had to, in the end. It hadn't mattered much, these little plans and machinations inside the family. Not in the grand scheme of things. 

 

\---

Madame Karkaroff was a pretty woman, that was sure. Not the kind of striking beauty, but that soft grace that made people want to see her in the morning, her hair ruffled, a loose pajama falling from her shoulders. 

 

Yes, Madame Karkaroff was a very pretty woman. Her husband was very proud of her, putting her on his arm at the first of each occasion, during the social events, at the balls. They wanted children - well, she wanted them, and he wished for an heir. She was the last descendant of one of the oldest Russian pureblood families, and had since her childhood, developed one of the magical recessive talents. 

 

It hadn’t been seen in centuries. 

 

Not that it was particularly powerful - nor useful. But it was hope that their blood could still hold something stronger, despite everything, despite the signs, despite the ostracism. They were stronger, it was obvious, and the pureness of their blood still help the spark of that special magic, that little thing that made them inherently superior to the others.

 

The all knew that already,  _ but to have a proof... _

 

Regulus stayed standing, still. 

 

Madame Karkaroff was spread on the floor, an expression of fear forever imprinted on her face. Dead. 

 

“Muggle.”

 

Regulus’s statement provoked a gasp from one of his colleagues. His eyes shot up. Barty was sneering at the low-ranked Death Eater that they had to take with them when the call had come. 

 

“She was shot with a gun - a muggle weapon based on canon powder, sparking metal that creates this kind of hole in the wounded limb. Considering her… attire, I would say a lover of some kind. Probably premeditated - that kind of weapon can’t be found everywhere.”

 

His voice was even, his words clear and concise for the journalist to be able to  _ understand everything _ . The man would note all that, take a few gruesome pictures, and the mission would be complete. 

 

Considering Barty’s posture, it was very clear that he wasn’t any more pleased than him by the presence of the bloody journalist, all pale and sputtering in front of a simple corpse. He was twice their age and acting like a green boy...

 

Regulus wondered if it was that the man was so weak or if it was them that had become used to it. 

 

The journalist made it a quick job. He didn’t want to be there any more than them. His skin had taken on a slight green when they had probed the corpse, and after a shaky attempt at a handshake, he was gone. 

 

As soon as the crack of apparition rang into the air, Regulus and Barty removed their masks. 

 

“Well, that’s a mess.” 

 

Regulus nodded, pensive. “But a really useful one. The law on marital control is being discussed right now at the Ministry…”

 

A glint of light caught his friend’s eyes. “You think this was staged?”

 

Regulus smirked. He had missed this, the way both of their minds would work together on any problem, on any mystery. The way they would trade looks across the hall in silent communication - something he had never quite manage to achieve with his own brother, too twitchy, too different. 

 

“The orders came too quickly. And look,” He delicately moved the woman’s- no the corpse’, just a corpse -head “ The bullet came from under. A Muggle would have held the gun at her temple, but a wizard always holds his weapon like a wand - it’s reflexive, and thus” He stood up and imitated the movement with his hand, “ will shoot from somewhere in the middle of the waist, depending on size.”

 

Barty smirked. “And considering the angle… the man was quite tall…”

 

Regulus nodded and passed a hand on his always perfectly made hair - he couldn’t afford to lose a hair on duty. “Looks like old Karkaroff owes us one here.”

 

Barty’s eyebrows shot up in assent and he pressed his tongue on his lower lip. 

 

“We should go before the Aurors come.”

 

“Considering their efficacy, we could stay a day or two without worry,” drawled Regulus. Barty chuckles softly and held out a gloved hand. Regulus took it without a second thought. 

 

“I still can’t come to your house?”

 

“Oh, you can come alright. I can’t guarantee, however, that you will be able to  _ get out _ .”

 

Barty sighed. They both knew that there was no negotiating with Walburga. It irked him that the woman was sometimes even more extreme in her ideas than the Lord himself. 

 

“I have a home, now, y’know? Small, but still a home.”

 

Regulus looked at him for a moment. “They threw you out, didn’t they?”

 

“Not really. But it didn’t make much difference for me to be here or there, so…”

 

He was lying. I didn’t matter. 

 

“We should report, before anything else,” Regulus said softly. 

 

His mother might try to kill him for it, but really, the Aurors would probably get him before that. 

 

He felt the Lord’s eyes on him when they entered the Lestrange Manor. He was sitting on a large chair of carved dark wood, silent and immobile. Not even reading a book, not even filling papers, as if he didn’t need to do those things. He was out of needs, he was above them all, and showed it. 

 

His breath coming short, he knelt. 

 

“Regulus.”

 

He shivered. His own name- he couldn’t recognise it falling from  _ those _ lips. It was something else, something that couldn’t really be him…

 

He dutifully raised his head but kept his knee on the floor. “The task is complete, My Lord. The journalist wrote everything according to our orders. The article will be published on the morrow.” 

 

“Good.”

 

Regulus’s lips stretch at the praise, but he controls himself quickly. He knew the Lord saw, but the Lord saw everything. 

 

He wondered if He liked their devotion, their love, or if he would dismiss it as something ridiculous, something abstract,  _ unuseful _ .

 

He wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer. 

 

They rose to leave the room when the Lord’s voice rang against the cold walls of stone. 

 

“Regulus, a word.”

 

Immediately, the young man turned towards his master and knelt again. His knees hurt. 

 

“Rise, rise, young Regulus, and come closer.”

 

Regulus froze. His heart was racing - had he done something wrong? Had failed somehow? A word had slipped, maybe - but no, of course not because his words  _ and mind _ were loyal to the Lord, to the Cause, but maybe-

 

It didn’t matter. The Lord’s will - only that was important. 

 

“The Lestranges told me you wished to accompany them during the next raid. However, I would prefer you as a backup, as it is proper for a healer. What are the reasons of this...demand?”

 

Regulus’s eyes rose to meet his Master’s. To tell the truth, he had to show the truth. “They talked about… activities. Ways they used during the raids. I wished to see it for myself, to learn, in case one day I was to be confronted with the consequences of such actions.” He said.

 

_ They use new methods of torture, and I can’t find a treatment if I don’t know the curse and the symptoms.  _

 

It wasn’t all the reasons, and he knew that the Lord knew. His irises were ablaze when they roamed over Regulus’s form. He opened his mouth to give the second answer, the full one, but Voldemort raised his hand to stop him. 

 

“Very well. However, do not disappoint me, Regulus. I have the..utmost faith in your future.”

 

Regulus’s breath caught in his throat, and his legs felt weak. He bowed. “I thank you, My Lord; I will do my very best.”

 

He waited to be standing, and firm on his feet.

 

“I will do my very best for you, My Lord.”

 

When he gets out of the room, the idea to go the Barty’s lost some of it’s allure, but they still go, without a word. 

 

The place is small, stuck with books and parchments. It smells of cold coffee, ink, and dry flowers. It’s a mess, but in which Regulus could see the expression of an unknown form of genius, with it’s dark alcoves, its strange shapes in the corners. It’s just like Barty. 

 

Regulus smiled. 

 

“It’s nice.”

 

he could have said more, he knew. But when he looked at Barty, he knew his friend had understood. It was nice. It felt like a home. 

 

Regulus slipped his gloves along his fingers and put them aside, before sliding out of the outer layer of his robes. 

 

“Bathroom?” 

 

“Second door, to the left.”

 

Regulus went, and opened the water. He still smelled like death. He wished he had had the time to take a shower, to get the  _ filth _ out of him. 

 

Sometimes, he thought he was starting to really get used to it. And then, then he saw - 

 

The red splash of blood tainting the water, on the white of the sink-

 

The rot under his nail, under his skin-

 

He sighed and turned off the water. 

 

Faint music was coming from the living room. He opened the door and the sound became louder.

 

A cymbal rang in a loop, a catchy rhythm ... The sounds were strange.

 

_ Muggle. _

 

_ We were born to be ...alive _

 

Barty was in the middle of the living room. He had taken off his uniform and opened a bottle, and moved his shoulders rhythmically. Regulus was speechless. He had heard about Muggle music, of course. The Slytherin students listened to them thanks to Muggle technology, sneering and blushing at doing something so forbidden.

 

_ We were born to be ...alive _

 

Barty reached out with a crooked smile, inviting his friend to the improvised dance floor. 

 

Regulus didn’t know what to do. It was forbidden, decadent. Against what they were fighting. Why would they dance to  _ Muggle music? _

 

But Barty was smiling so brightly, his eyes teasing, and they were alone, free, here, from everything, from  _ everyone… _

 

So Regulus let himself go. Awkwardly, he took Barty’s hand

 

_ Born, born to be alive _

 

So Regulus started dancing- moving his body on rhythm, not knowing the steps.  _ What was he even supposed to do on such a quick tempo?  _

 

But he was smiling. His hair fell from its restraint all around his face. 

 

_ Born to be alive _

 

Nothing mattered but the beating of his heart in his ears and the laughter of his friend ringing in the air. His back was stiff and his moves weird. He didn't know what to do with his arms. 

 

He was having fun. 

 

_ Yes we were born, Born, Born _

_ Born to be alive…  _

 

He tripped on a book that was laying on the floor. Barty barely caught him, snickering. 

 

“You're not drunk enough to fall in my arms, mate.” He taunted lightly. 

 

“I'm not drunk at all!”

 

“Oh, yes yes yes! I'm failing at all my duties!”

 

The word of duty rang into Regulus’ head. What the hell was he doing? 

 

_ But I never wanted all those things _

_ People need to justify _

_ Their lives, Lives, Lives _

_ Yes we were born, born _

_ Born to be alive _

 

“Here, take this.”

 

Barty shoved a cheap beer into his hand, probably all the young man could afford with a small ministry’s wage.

 

Regulus was about to refuse - such a drink such activities were below his status, below what was expected of him, but there was something in Barty’s eyes, something like hope, and Regulus suddenly found himself hoping as well. 

 

He took the beer.

 

_ Born _

 

They danced until he forgot the music, until he forgot that it was fundamentally  _ wrong,  _ until the sky turned dark and cleared again. They dance in the ridiculous way that used to when they were at Hogwarts, still innocents, still children, unaware of what was lurking in the shadows.

 

Before they started lurking too.

 

At some point Barty took his hand, careful not to hold it too much, his steps unsure. Barty leads him to the bedroom, where they both fall on the bed, facing each other.

 

Barty took his hand (it was  _ warm  _ and  _ soft _ ), but did nothing more.

 

There was only so much disobedience Regulus could muster, after all. 

 

When Regulus closed his eyes, he could almost feel the Lord’s burning stare on his neck. 

 

\---

 

The Lord wanted prisoners.

 

It was the logical thing to do. Regulus had expected it for a few months. There was no better way to spread terror in the enemy's ranks than to give them back their own  _ alive but wishing they weren’t _ . 

 

They had attacked a small town - muggle, defenseless. The inhabitants hadn’t stood a chance. 

 

But they didn’t matter. Who cared about a few muggles, really. They had been chosen randomly, to make it more gruesome for the Order. They had to lose their temper. 

 

They would. It wasn’t for nothing that Sirius was part of the organisation after all. 

 

Regulus was sitting behind a wall, looking at the street by the broken window above his left shoulder. He wasn’t used to being so close to the front lines.  

 

Rodolphus was on the other side of the wall, along with his father. 

 

Their plan was in place. 

 

Regulus felt nothing about it - but he wondered. Would the Lestranges brother really follow it until the end? He couldn’t fathom condemning his own father in such a way. Killing him himself - maybe, had he betrayed their family. But at that point, he wouldn’t be  _ family _ anymore. 

 

No matter what they did, it would tell a lot about them - about them both. Even if Regulus was almost sure that if Rodolfus did the deed, Rabastan would follow, as always, one is never shielded from the arrays of a dying moral sense.

 

Tragedy was born in the lurking, the ignored, in the small shadow at the corner of the eye, in that little wicked thing that detracted a mind as surely as a blade could do the body. 

 

The evening descended on the village, and a strange light between dog and wolf spread through the streets. Then, suddenly, in the silence, a blinding white light caressed the walls, and the shadows moved as the immense Phoenix Patronus ascended in the twilight.

  
  


The wave of power made light objects fly away, and Regulus’s robe float around him. He quickly caught it and tucked it back not to reveal his position. 

 

It was almost breathtaking, this power. 

 

Dumbledore had apparently decided to make the displacement. 

 

Rodolfus’ eyes were wide with the realisation of what they had to fight today. He caught Regulus’s eyes. The young man nodded; he would follow his cousin until the moment came. 

 

And it came soon enough. 

 

Regulus was pushed near the river that surrounded the city. His feet damp, swallowed by the mud, he was trying to hold his position to protect Rodolfus' back. It would have been far easier if the Man wasn't moving so much. Apparition should be forbidden during the raids especially in unknown territory.

 

They were circled by the Prewett' brothers.

 

Regulus was starting to tire. He knew them - they wouldn't let him go alive; not after they had seen the corpses in the streets, not after their eyes had narrowed in so much anger that Regulus had wondered how they could hold it still. He didn't know why they had been so touched by the deaths of Muggles, of all things.

 

But, he knew that once again the Lord's plan had worked.

 

Not that he had ever doubted it.

 

Apparating a few meters away to avoid a flash of light - a Dark Curse, if his observations were accurate, he saw something at the corner of his eye.

 

Two shadows, circling the brothers.

 

Regulus did a quick calculation. If he and Rodolfus held their positions, the Prewetts would be taken by all sides. But the place was opened, and they were the perfects targets. The water was dampening his trousers and the end of his robes, slowing his progress and distracting him. 

 

He hated the damp feeling on his legs, not knowing if it was water, or gore, of blood. He hated the way his trousers clung onto his legs, irritating his skin. 

 

Only the Lestrange' patriarch was missing.

 

Regulus rolled to avoid another curse. The Prewetts were a force to reckon with indeed.

 

But it wasn't enough. It would not be, it could not be. Simply because they didn’t really know what they were against. Because they hadn't felt the fear and the thrill that was put in every Death Eater’s mind before battle. 

 

Because they didn’t really know the power of the Lord. 

 

Finally, the Elder Lestrange appeared.

 

"What are you all doing?" he hissed, blocking a curse with a strong shield - magical defense, his forte, the very reason they couldn't take him in a duel.

 

Regulus was almost dancing at that point.

 

He looked at Bellatrix, from behind one of his enemies' shoulder. 

 

The wind was blowing, and as he looked at her, he knew it would happen.

 

His heart was beating fast in his ribcage.

 

So, he and Rodolfus moved at the same time in opposites directions, letting the Elder Lestrange' side open, and forcing him to put himself in the middle.

 

Rabastan, not missing the hit, started walking against the spells, getting closer to their enemies.

 

"Rabastan! What are you doing, come back here!"

 

Regulus heard the panic in Lestrange's voice. He heard and knew: the man loved his son dearly. 

 

Regulus pinched his lips as he worked to make the Prewetts more desperate. He cast dark spells, twirled, and summoned the water from the river. It made a big, reflecting disc and suddenly, they knew there were being surrounded.

 

Good.

 

He whistled.

 

Immediately, Rabastan walked even more boldly towards their enemies. Bellatrix discreetly casted her strongest shields, but the Older Lestrange couldn't see her from where he was.

 

The man knew one thing: his son was walking towards his death.

 

A better man would have put himself in front of Rabastan, would have shielded him in the same way Bellatrix was doing.

 

But the Older Lestrange wasn't that kind of man. He did the first thing that came to his mind.

 

" _ Avada Kedavra! _ "

  
  


\---

 

“I told you to bring me, prisoners.”

 

The Lord was standing on a platform, towering over them all. Regulus and the other participants of the last raids were standing on the sides of the room, aligned and dutifully silent.

 

Waiting.

 

Lestrange was kneeling on the stone floor, his back curved. Only a few meters away, his sons were staring at him.

 

Nothing showed on their faces.

 

“Ye- yes My Lord, but they would have killed my-"

 

“You disobeyed my orders.”

 

It wasn't even a warning; it was a statement. Even if the Lord's words were only breath, they killed as surely as his wand. He wasn't moving, his hands behind his back, like a schoolboy. It was a disturbing contrast with the way his unblinking eyes never left the kneeling man, promising pain. His shadow climbed on the wall and the ceiling, covering half of the room with his very presence.

 

Regulus looked away. Outside, it was raining again.

 

"Maybe I should kill your precious son, if he is more important than our Cause to you, Lestrange."

 

Nobody breathed. At his right, Regulus could see Rodolfus shifting slightly closer to his little brother while Bella's eyes bored holes on Rodolfus.

 

The Lord made a step forward, and it cracked in the air like a bolt of lightning.

 

“I’m so sorry my Lord, please…”

 

The words were ringing in all of their ears.

 

Lestrange was begging. Lestrange was begging. Regulus couldn't let his eyes leave the man. He had prostrated himself, his brow on the floor, his body shaking. Regulus could see tears streaking his face, pooling on the floor below him.

 

It was sickening, shameful. That a Lord of one of the most ancient houses, a pureblood, a soldier would shame himself in such a way, in front of his sons, in front of them all... Regulus could barely look at it, and yet, he didn't let his eyes wander. Rabastan life was still on the line - and if the young man hadn't much value on a political level, his brother would never function normally if he were to disappear.

 

Regulus refused to think about what it would do to him. He had to keep his head cold, despite the growing weight in his stomach.

 

"Please, I've served you all my life, my Lord..."

 

The Lord still didn't answer, pinning his servant with his only gaze.

 

"I am humbly begging you, My Lord..."

 

Lestrange looks up to meet Voldemort's eyes. "Please spare my sons... They are young - children almost, My Lord, please... My boys..."

 

His voice broke, but Lestrange didn't sob. Regulus wasn't sure if he still had enough in him to sob after the cruciatus. He wasn't sure if he had enough will if he was  _ here _ enough to cry. When Lestrange had knelt, his soul too had fallen on its knees.

 

Voldemort considered his servant, and Regulus felt himself shiver. Then, the Lord's eyes traveled on all his followers, slowly, purposefully.

 

They stopped a second on Regulus.

 

The Lord rose his wand towards the prostrated man. Lestrange looked at his sons and smiled what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. To Regulus, it looked like a blade in his stomach.

 

Lestrange turned towards Voldemort.

 

"Thank, my Lord..." Thank y-"

 

“ _ Avada Kedavra _ .”

 

\---

 

“Come in, Regulus.”

 

Regulus opened the door if his Lord’s office. It was, as always, carefully unorganized and delicately decorated.

 

Voldemort was sitting in the only armchair, his back to the window. The contrast was sharpening his cheekbones, and his red eyes seemed to glow in the shadows. In front of him, Bellatrix and Snape were standing, eyes dutifully cast on the floor.

 

Barty was here too. When Regulus entered, he rose his eyes for a second.

 

Idiot.

 

Luckily, the Lord hadn't notice. Regulus didn't want to  _ lie _ to the Lord, and if asked, he would answer the truth: he was a good friend with Barty, a close one at that. But he didn't want to have that conversation, he didn't want their... link to be made public.

 

Lestrange's fate made very clear that any attachment would be considered as a weakness and exploited as such.

 

Regulus bowed low, and waited to be acknowledged.

 

"You may rise, Regulus."

 

The young man went to take his place at Bella's right. He could feel her excitement, and frankly, didn't quite know what to make of it.

 

It could be bad, or abysmal, really.

 

"I just received a... letter from the muggle prime minister."

 

He paused, and the silence stilled in the room. " He found... necessary to assure me of his refusal to acknowledge officially any political structure we might put in place."

 

_ Oh. _

 

"Indeed."

 

Regulus startled to find the Lord looking at him. "I'm sure that all of you know that I cannot let such an...insult... pass."

Regulus put all his strength into not clenching his fists.

 

Afraid. Surprisingly, fear was the first thing that came out his mind because bloody hell  _ the muggles were at least five against one and their guns passed the magical shields _ .

 

Then... then it was anger, of course, because  _ how dare they? _

 

But it didn't last. 

 

It didn't last because Regulus was made for this. Formed to read more in every decision.

 

He was the Black Heir.

 

And what he saw was that the minister probably acted on Dumbledore's behalf in fear of having to fight the M.A.C.U.S.A.

 

Which meant the English PM wasn't ready for an open war - thus all of their raids would be hidden by the official media as much a possible, and the rest denied and obliviated.

 

And the M.A.C.U.S.A' position revealed a weakness in the status; a fear that something  _ might _ break through.

 

It was a proof. Voldemort was right. The Status was already fragile - even the muggles were starting to take dispositions.

 

"I have been contacted by O'Donnell."

 

Regulus' mind was starting to work in many directions -too much to actually grasp all the consequences of such a declaration.

 

"I was told by my intels that the PM was going to the Opera, at the end of the week. O'Donnell will, of course, support any action we might take against him."

 

The Death Eaters were looking at him expectantly. To have the support of the main political figure of the Irish underground would not be free - but nothing was in politics. However, their support would give the Lord credit on an international field - and resources that they desperately lacked.

 

No matter the Muggles... shortcomings; the Status couldn't be reinforced on only one of its sides.

 

"Bellatrix, I want you to check on our most discreet and efficient men, with a full team prepared to deal with mass panic and eventual explosions - the Irish are after all very good at civil warfare. Don't give any details out of the necessity of an operation in a muggle environment - I'll make an announcement when necessary. You may go."

 

Bella's face had lit up like it was her birthday. She bowed. "Yes, my Lord, thank you."

 

"Severus, we will need more reserves of potion - blood replenisher, healing potion, calming draught, all the first necessities. I want all the safe houses to be stuffed. You can take as many assistants as you need for this, but I want it done before the operation."

 

Snape looked pale these days - paler than usually anyway. The poor man had assumed his post as the potion Master fully, deserting almost completely the other areas of action. It was a shame; his talent in the Dark Arts was to be reckoned with, and his cruelty could break any man.

 

But they needed potion, and they already had enough executioners.

 

Snape bowed with an almost inaudible 'my Lord' and swept out of the room.

 

"Regulus."

 

The Lord was looking at him with intent as if trying to pierce every secret he had - thinking of it, he probably could. Even like this, even sitting in casual robes, in the mid-day lighting, with a neutral expression, he didn't really look... human. Not normal, not on the same level as them all. He had something- Regulus couldn't put his finger on it. Something  _ other _ , something  _ alien _ . 

 

"I am sure that you understand the... implication of this decision?"   
  
The Lord inclined his head toward the floor, looking at him threw non-existent spectacles - and for a moment, it was really disturbing how he looked like the old Headmaster.    
  
"Some of them, My Lord. I am sure some implications are beyond me - I never had such a grasp on muggle politics."   
  
The Lord nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Yes, I thought as much. I will move myself during the operation, but my location will be maintained as secret for obvious reasons. I want you to be there too."   
  
Regulus would have gaped if not for the strong reflexes his mother had buried in him - Blacks do not gape, Blacks do not show - but he was sure that his master was very, very aware of his internal turmoil.   
  
"You made progress I... never quite expected of you, Regulus. I want to see where we can go with you from there."   
  
_ You are weak yet you attracted my attention, I will thus test you. _ __   
  
Regulus wasn't a fool. He knew he was too soft, too caring, not mad enough to be of real value for the Lord, but maybe...   
  
... Maybe he could prove himself this way. Do something right.    
  
"I simply hope not to disappoint you, my Lord."   
  
"I hope that too, Young Regulus. For your sake and mine."

The week was one of the worse Regulus ever lived. Everything was a frenzy, and no one really knew what was going on; not even him. Were they going to murder the minister? To take him as a prisoner of war? Regulus found solace in the idea that contrary to most of the Death Eaters he remotely knew what was going on.

 

The most alarming thing was maybe the number of Death Eaters from all circles coming to him with marks of deep mental troubles. A few of them had tried to kill themselves - only to be finished by their families or by the Lord afterward ( such weakness couldn't be let wander).

 

He wondered why they were sent to him at all.

 

Others... others had scratches on their forearms, hair whitening too early, trouble eating... Sometimes, he saw some of them trying to defect. They all knew it meant death; and he only hoped that they had chosen their faith with consideration and found a good way to... go.

 

The D-day arrived too soon, or maybe not soon enough.

 

Regulus walked into the place, his instructions very simple. 

 

He didn’t like them at all. 

 

Regulus didn’t like the fact that he had been put in the spotlights, he didn’t like the fact that he was in an open muggle area with absolutely no control, he didn’t like the fact that  _ he couldn’t back off _ . 

 

He felt constricted in these muggle clothes. He hated it. This wasn’t what he was supposed to do, this wasn’t  _ him.  _

 

Even as a disguise. 

 

The opera was a tall white building lined with columns - muggles had this strange way of wanting to believe their own worth, copying ancient and royal models.

 

A crowd was gathered in front of it

 

Above everything else, Regulus hated the crowd.

 

He took a deep breath and walked towards the towering building. His steps were long, purposeful, and his back straight; even in this muggle clothing, he would not dishonour the house of Black.

 

He passed the gigantic doors of sculpted steel. The inside was just as ostentatious as the outside, but it all tasted somewhat fake. It was like someone had tried to smother the angles of the Black manor, while not really trying to smother the Black people. All the walls were made of marble - not the best quality, Regulus could tell. The floors were covered with a deep red, soft carpet which gave something felted to the air. The soft rumbling of conversations was only disrupted by a few high laughs of the women (and Merlin why did the muggle woman felt the need to paint their bloody faces?).

 

It was just a mission. To please the Lord.

 

Everything was going to be ok.

 

He gave his coat to the counter like everyone seemed to do. The girl behind it blushed and smiled at him he barely refrained from a sneer. 

 

He had to stay in character. Not that it would change much from a day-to-day life, but here… he didn’t quite know the traditions. Was it normal for a young girl to flirt in everyone’s view? With a customer, no less? Muggles had the strangest customs, and they were clearly more… light, in their physical contacts. 

 

And Meda had sold herself to  _ that _ . 

 

Regulus pushed the thought at the back of his mind - it didn’t,  _ couldn’t  _ matter now. 

 

The doors opened and people started to walk in. From the corner of his eye, Regulus noticed the minister - Calla something, walking in the upper level with his family and what Regulus guessed were bodyguards and security officers. 

 

On his left, near the door, he saw  _ him _ . 

 

And Merlin it should be forbidden to still look like a Lord, to still be that much at ease among Muggles. 

 

The Lord. His Lord. 

 

He was standing above the stairs in a three piece suit of black and deep purple, talking lightly with whatever important Muggle guest that Regulus didn’t even think of looking at. 

 

It was like he was made for this. 

 

His hair was shorter that what he used to wear - combed neatly in perfect waves instead of the traditional shoulder-length.

 

Regulus turned his eyes away. He wasn't supposed to know the Lord - and Merlin only knew what the muggles would think at a man staring at another one for much longer.

 

They did have the strangest minds.

 

He entered the dark and caulked atmosphere of the theater. It was like entering another world, full of red velvet and false gilding.

 

The murmur of the conversations seemed to be part of the place, like an artificial wind carrying lies and false laughter. Here, Regulus felt a bit more in his element. He didn't know about muggles, but aristocracies errands, he could manage.

 

Regulus' seat was in front of the scene, in height, overhanging most of the seats. If his calculations were correct, he should be just under the minister's seat, on the second balcony.

 

He took a deep breath as the sea of people started to pack the room under him.

 

Regulus sat gracefully and kept his eyes on the stage.

 

The lights dimmed. 

 

The scene was illuminated. The spectators applauded, all at the same moment, all too loud, like a series of detonations, like lightning in the closed room.

 

Regulus imitated them.

 

The orchestra began to make strange, discordant sounds before silence fell.

 

And then the music started.

 

The violins, first, steady, constant, like the fall and rise of a breath. Then, the voice, high and soft, holding the notes like they were simply hanging in the air. Only one voice, sounding across the giant room, carried by the strings like a body on the waves.

 

Regulus couldn't stop staring.

 

The song ended and another started and Merlin, how did the Muggles do that? Standing here, singing these perfect thing, when every note nailed Regulus on the spot, all alone, without magic, for all intent and purpose  _ naked _ in the face of the world…? 

 

How...?

 

Something shifted behind him.

 

Someone sat in the seat that had stayed empty at Regulus' left. His hand went on his wand as he felt the shift of magic in the air; all his senses on the potential threat. Yet, he did not move nor did he turn his head.

 

"Good evening, Regulus."

 

Regulus wished he hadn't started at hearing the Lord's voice so close to his ear. 

 

Blacks do not startle, but being a Black didn’t really matter when one was confronted by Lord Voldemort. 

 

It hurt to admit that. 

 

“My Lord,” he whispered because  _ fuck,  _ how was he supposed to call Him in this very situation? 

 

“You must ask yourself why I am here, and not with the minister.”

 

Regulus could almost hear the smirk in that smooth, deep voice. 

 

He shuddered. 

 

“I can fathom the reasons that led you here, my Lord, however, I am sure that you have your reasons, and I wouldn’t dare put them to doubt with my ignorance.”

 

The Lord chuckled. “Oh, Regulus, such a sweet tongue, as always…”

 

Regulus was relieved that the darkness hid his blush. Never had a threat sounded so sweet and heavy on his heart. 

 

"I wonder..."

 

Regulus shivered. The Lord's breath was brushing the skin if his neck. A gloved hand found its way to his knee, simply resting there.

 

Regulus didn't dare to breathe.

 

"...if we could put that tongue to better use..."

 

The Lord's thumb was running a parody of smoothing circles against the soft fabric of Regulus' pant -  _ and Merlin he could feel the heat, the weight of that flesh against him- _

 

"My Lord?"

 

"Tell me Regulus..." Whispered the Lord, and  _ fuck _ he was bordering on Parseltongue, his voice so deep, so close...

 

Regulus' heart was beating faster from fear, confusion, arousal - he didn't know, he just wanted whatever was that to stop. The Lord shouldn't touch  _ him _ like that, the Lord shouldn't touch anyone like that-

 

"Did you really think I wouldn't see into your little ploy?"

 

The gloved hand caressed its way further on Regulus; it was tight- intimate, indecent and yet so cold, so far away... The young man was frozen in his place.

 

"Did you think I didn't know your little conspiracy?"

 

Regulus was starting to panic. His eyes were wide. He put his hand on the guardrail to ground himself, to remind himself that this was true, it wasn't a nightmare...

 

"My Lord...!"

 

"Hush, hush sweet child. We don't want to attract attention, now, do we?"

 

The Lord's face, still just next to him, was black and casually looking at the musician down in the pit, while his hand was - oh.

 

Regulus shivered as the hand covered in this dark leather glove lightly caressed his crotch and - Merlin, the Lord would see how hard Regulus was. He was trapped, his breathing coming quicker, attracting the attention of theses  _ filthy Muggles _ . Regulus could feel their eyes on him, full of disgust and-

 

"There, there Regulus, don't be so frustrated. It's unbecoming of a Black."

 

And, Merlin, it sounded like the Lord really worried about Regulus's dignity - and he was right, he had to still himself, square his shoulders, be impassive or he would be a failure, weak, weak _ , weak... _

 

Two fingers caressed the length of his arousal and he gasped.

 

Voldemort tutted, keeping his hand where it was. “It was a very good plan, I must say… Cunning and ruthless, all things I like… Poor Lord Lestrange didn’t stand a chance, did he?”

 

Regulus pinched his lips in a desperate attempt not to make any noise. The hand, so cruel, continued to trace light his arousal, going down,  _ down.  _ Only his resolve stopped him from bucking into the touch. 

 

The shame of it all made him want to puke, to cry,  _ to scream. _

 

“Yes, a very _ clever _ plan indeed. That’s how I knew it was you who thought of it, you see? The Lestranges brothers certainly aren’t subtle enough, and my Bella, dear, fierce, Bella is too loyal, too devoted to try to  _ manipulate me… _ ”

 

The strings went into a crescendo, covering Regulus’ cry when the gloved hand palmed his erection. 

 

“My Lord…” He gasped, and he wanted to cry to be reduced to  _ this _ , “I assure you I did not…”

 

“Are you telling me I’m a liar, Regulus?”

 

Voldemort’s hand squeezed, and Regulus closed his eyes to stop himself from making any noise. 

 

“No- no, I…”

 

Something,  _ something _ , was compressing his torso, his limbs, something dark, angry, something-

 

“Or, are you telling me I am delusional, then? Imagining things? That my judgment is uncertain?”

 

The pressure was on his shoulders now, until the only free place, the only thing that was being crushed was his crotch, In the Lord’s hand. It was dirty, it was shameful, disgraceful-

 

_ He didn’t want this. _

 

“No, My Lord, I-”

 

The pressure in his pants was painful, so painful. 

 

“That’s what I thought,  _ sweet boy _ .” He caressed Regulus’ cheek with his other hand, caring, tender and yet the coldness of the leather made it all even more monstrous  “Exactly what I thought.”

 

The beginning was on the tip of Regulus’ tongue, ready to fall out and to drown him in shame, but he didn’t let it fall. He could hear no other symphony than the blood rushing in his ears. He couldn’t, not even utter another word, he just  _ needed- _

 

“I am not your executioner, Regulus. If anything, you are mine.”

 

And with these words - barely louder than a breath, all the pressure, all of Voldemort’s power withdrew from Regulus.

 

The relief, the frustration, the wrongness of it all was too much for him to bear, and with a spasm, he came. 

 

It was  _ glorious _ . 

 

And then, just then it was a mess. The rush was gone, and he was just there, sticky, humiliated. He closed his fists and blinked, willing the tears gone, willing the pain away. 

 

“Do clean yourself before the beginning of the festivities.”

 

Regulus looked at his Lord rising from his seat, his mind blank. 

 

He just wanted to hide, to clean himself. 

 

He just wanted to go  _ home _ . 

 

\-----

“Regulus?”

 

He stopped at the end of the stairs, his hand still on the carved wood.

 

He was shaking.

 

“Regulus, is something the matter?”

 

“Everything is fine, father .”

 

Orion was standing in the hallway, Looking at him worriedly, his shoulders relaxed. He probably had been hitting on the sherry, he wouldn't ask otherwise. Or wouldn't care enough to ask, to drop the habits of  _ nothing _ he had always created around himself.

 

His father walked - with great aid of the wall, towards him.

 

Regulus clenched his teeth. "Regu-"

 

"Just leave it." Regulus hissed.

 

Orion stayed there, a few meters away.  _ Good _ . He looked dumbstruck - and he should, really. Interrupting one's sentence was impolite at best - but no one interrupted the Lord of the House Black.

 

Not that Orion had ever been much of the Lord, here.

 

The thought was bitter and probably unfair, but Regulus didn't, couldn't care less. He had tiptoed into his house to avoid his mother, hoping that she did not sniff out the disgrace that he was and disown him on principle.

 

Regulus was so disgusting. It was all so disgusting.

 

Regulus didn't want to talk, he didn't want to pretend. He didn't want to breath the same air as the man in front of him.

 

"If there's something.. on your mind..."

 

And that was it.

 

It was all too much, too compressed in his chest. Each breath felt like fire, felt like drowning. It didn't really  _ felt _ anymore, it was...  _ something. _

 

How many times had his father used him as a shield against his mother's furor? "How fucking dare you..." He panted.  _ How many time had he just do nothing? _ "... pretend that you  _ care? _ "

 

"Reggy-"

 

Use of a childish nickname; a pleading tone; a frown. Disappointment, confusion, sadness. Classical, unsubtle attempt at manipulation.

 

How médiocre.

 

"Don't. Don't you  _ dare _ ."

 

Regulus didn't know when he had started to cry. Maybe it was when he had snapped, maybe when he had softly locked the door of his room behind him - not to wake his mother. He only hoped it hadn't been in front of his father.

 

An hour or two later, Kreacher left a flask of sleeping draught on his bed table. 

 

\----

Regulus was tired. He opened the door of 12 Grimmauld place. He had dark circles under his eyes and screams ringing in his ears - in his head. Spring had come slowly - it was almost summer, but the weather had not warmed up. The effects of the black arts used in mass began to be felt even in the weather.

 

Shivering, Regulus got rid of his cloak, which Kreacher tried to put away in silence. The young man thanked him with a nod and went to his room.

 

The house was strangely silent.

 

Regulus frowned. 

 

His wand was in his hand in an instant, a shield charm at the tip of his tongue. Did someone break into the house? Aurors?

 

Had he been seen during the Lord’s ‘discussion’ with the minister?

 

Has Sirius finally found a way to make his blood prevail in the wards, despite being disowned? Sent the Order here?

 

These ideas were paranoia, insane. He had absolutely no proof that something had happened, except the strange silence, but he  _ knew. _

 

He knew something had tainted the walls of his home, that the fury in the air had turned into something heavier, something morbid. Sick, or dying, reeking of danger, urgency. Screaming that something was wrong.

 

He walked slowly along the dim corridors, his wand first, his breath forcefully steady. The paintings were gravely following him with their gaze - but they wisely kept silent.

 

Nothing. He could see no one, hear nothing but the loud clong of the family clock.

 

Nothing.

 

With a breath of relief, Regulus lowered his wand.

 

"Kreature!"

 

The little creature popped from thin air, and bowed deeply. "Is anyone home?"

 

"Master Orion Sir stayed home today, Sir. He did not get out of his room."

 

"Very well, please bring tea to my rooms."

 

"It will be done, Master Regulus."

 

Regulus let himself fall on his bed, in a way he wouldn't have usually. What was to point to pretend? Nobody was here to see, anyway.

 

He had nothing to prove to himself anymore.

 

Regulus got off his outer robes, and shoes, letting himself in only his trousers and white chemise. He let his hair fall loose on his shoulders.

 

He didn't look at himself in the mirror.

 

When he opened his eyes again, it was darker in the room, and his tea was waiting on the desk under his window.

 

He sat, and drank his tea slowly. It didn't matter if it was cold.

 

The 'discussion' with the muggle minister had apparently went well, so well that the number of casualties had been very low- only the Irish rebel and his men, as a show of understanding, not with the actual minister, but with the next one.

 

A woman, he had heard.

 

Strange muggles.

 

Barty had said that he could come and live at his flat. Not forever, of course, but for a while. Just to be out of this house, while he wasn't the Lord Black, while he still could.

 

And this, just this...

 

It was hope.

 

A bit of freedom, conditional, maybe, but freedom nonetheless. To be able to live next to someone he trusted as much as he could -  _ Blacks trust no one- _ , someone that wouldn't hurt him without reason...

 

It was much more that what he had expected.

 

Sighing, he let himself lean on the wall, and his face broke down from the impassivity he had to put there everyday. It wasn't a smile, not really, it was an almost-something.

 

It was the best he could manage now. He hoped it would be enough.

 

"Regulus!"

 

He frowned and got up to his feet. He could almost hear the alcohol in his mother's voice - and that wasn't a good thing. Especially if she had just gotten home, and not yet touched the sherry.

 

"REGULUS COME HERE AT THIS INSTANT!"

 

He repressed a shiver. Sometimes, he wondered why no one had thought about killing his mother, for her own sake if not for the other's.

 

When he passed in front of his father's room, he heard something heavy falling. He paused a moment but then continued his walk towards the next row of screams.

 

The house elves would take care of it.

 

He arrived to find his mother indeed sprawled dramatically on the sofa, and a hand on a bottle of far too expensive alcohol.

 

"Regulus, Regulus - my son..." She slurred, and he knew it wasn't good. It really wasn't good.

 

She opened her mouth, probably to shout, but frowned and seemed to think better of it. She pinched her lips, her hand squeezing the fabric of the sofa like a life-line. She paled.

 

"Regulus, do fetch your father."

 

There was something in her voice. Something urgent, almost pleading.

 

Regulus didn't even think to talk back, he turned his heels and climbed up the stairs.

 

He stayed half a breath in front of the dark door, his hand in the air, not daring to knock. 

 

He shook himself out of this ridiculous idea. 

 

Nobody answered his knock. 

 

“Father?” he asked, a bit more timidly than he would have liked.

 

No answer.

 

“Father, Mother is asking after you!” Still nothing. He tried to open the door; locked. 

 

He had a bad feeling about this. He tried to knock again, to call, but to no avail. 

 

“Kreacher! Open the door.” The elf wouldn’t have done so in normal circumstances. Regulus knew that, and Kreature knew that, and the fact that he did open the door was maybe worse than anything else at that moment. 

 

The first thing he saw was the stool. It was old, delicately carved, but not well kept. It was on the side, fallen. Above it was a foot, alone, in the air, the rest of the leg hidden behind the sheet of the four poster bed. 

 

The foot was twitching, like a cramp. Something was dripping from it, a fluid. Something awful-

 

_ It’s piss and shit, it happens when they die- _

 

Unblinking, Regulus walked inside the room. 

 

Orion was hanging in the air.

 

Orion was hang. 

 

_ His father-  _ blue, purple, black, his tongue out of his mouth, his throat constricted around the rope, his eyes bulging-

 

_ His father-  _ His hand, unused at his sides, spit on his shirt, and the odor, the smell of it all-

 

Regulus couldn’t move, Regulus couldn’t blink. His breath was trembling, oddly calm. His mind blank - it was all too much. Something in his throat was burning, too painful for him to form a coherent thought. 

 

There was blood mixing with the spit - surely from where the rope had hurt the throat. His thoughts were elsewhere, cold, distant - because of course, this couldn’t be happening,  _ of course- _

 

And the legs, oh Merlin, the legs were still twitching - _ when they are dying, the muscles tend to have reflexes and to keep moving when the rest of the body cannot- _

 

What was that? What was damping his cheeks? What-?

 

.

.

.

 

When everything returned to Regulus, he felt the hard floor under his knees, and the screams of his mother in his ears. 

 

His father’s legs had stopped twitching. 


End file.
